


Make A Man Out of Him

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Disguise, F/M, Pirate Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Princess Emma Swan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 143,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan makes plans for an adventure, but as plans so often do, hers goes awry. Falls to pieces. Sends her hurtling, disguised as a boy right onto a pirate ship captained by Killian Jones, pirate extraordinaire (his words, not hers).</p>
<p>It’s going to be a long month on this adventure. Emma is prepared to make the most of it, but she isn’t prepared for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [niniadepapa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniadepapa/gifts).



> Inspired by [this graphic.](http://kahlansamnells.tumblr.com/post/118428474631/emmaduckling-cs-au-ill-make-a-man-out-of)

The plan had been to run away. For a month or so, long enough that she can have a proper adventure, but not so long that her parents start scouring the Enchanted Forest and beyond to find her.

That would be a waste of needed resources. Her mother will surely be proud to hear Emma remembers some of her lessons. Never let it be said that Emma doesn’t care about her people - she cares more than enough, thank you very much.

Anyway, a month long adventure. That had been the plan - and it was going fairly well just up until a half an hour ago. Before the three bar patrons saw through her disguise and turned from happy drunkards into prospective kidnappers.

Their blood still drips from her thin dueling saber. Emma wipes it on one of the dead men’s pants and doesn't regret it. Another lesson her mother would be proud to hear stuck. Her father, too.

"I don't ever want to kill anyone," she'd told her mother, perched on the window bench of the royal study, sundress clinging to her knees from the rush of the wind through that open window.

Her mother had reached over and brushed Emma's hair behind her ears. Her smile was gentle, but her words were tempered with firmness when she cupped Emma's face in her hands and said, "You may not have a choice.”

Her father had agreed without words but outside in the dueling yard, with the sweep of his blade before her face and the insistence that she use that momentum to turn his deadly arc against him.

It had taken Emma three months to master the move; her father a year.

She’s a fast learner.

That skill comes in handy now when she makes her escape from the alley the men thought they’d cornered her in. They thought she’d weep and come along without a fight because she wore her hair long, in the knotted and braided ponytail of a royal, and the cleavage of her bodice rose with every breath she’d taken while contemplating how best to take them down. “Princess,” and “Little lass,” they’d called her, thinking she’d answer to their call.

Obviously, they’d thought wrong, but still she needs to adjust her plans now. Outfit’s style aside, it had been useful in getting her here. It would have to be useful in getting her out.

When she turns the corner towards the horse stalls, laughter filters out from the bar’s open windows. It’s still packed and the lamps still flicker in invitation. Conceivably, she can go back in and buy a room there for the night.

Conceivably, that’s probably the worst move she can make. As stealthily as she’d made her way out the bar, it won’t be stealthy enough when people notice the dead men in the alley and remember the girl who’d disappeared at the word, “Princess.”

“Little lass,” she curses in a gruff voice. It isn’t nice to mock the dead, but attempted kidnapping isn’t nice either.

It’s quiet when she enters the barn. The man supposed to be watching the patrons’ horses is asleep in his chair. Emma’s glad she kept her satchel with her. Even gladder that she’d kept it out of harm’s way when she’d taken on the three men. Explaining her sweat streaked face is one thing. A blood soaked bag is a situation she doesn’t want to ever need to talk her way out of.

She opens the gate for her horse, a young mare strong enough to carry her, but without the breeding of the royal horses. One of her smarter choices – an idea she’d lifted straight from her guidebook, tucked within her satchel. Emma leads it outside and a little ways away before she pauses to gather herself. Her horse whinnies lightly as she throws her satchel over its flank and heaves herself onto it.

Emma starts on a trot down the cobbled road only to realize that she has no idea where she’s going. Not exactly a first for her the past few days but it’s cold now and she needs someplace to rest for the evening. Getting out of town and camping in the forest at night without any actual camping supplies isn’t her idea of a good time, nor is finding another tavern full of money hungry potential criminals.

She settles on a happy medium, meaning a medium priced Lady’s Inn on the opposite side of town. Dirty and sweaty as she is, her gold is what sways the overbearing matron to allow her to stay the night.

If she’d known the kind of lady that Emma actually is, she wouldn’t snub her nose so much at Emma’s state.

The thought reverbs in her head. In actuality, she probably would. Her mother had done so enough when Emma came traipsing in after her day long excursions outside the Castle covered in dirt and muck, an utter mess that a gentle born lady shouldn’t have to endure.

Emma never could quite explain that it wasn’t a hardship for her, the way her mother made it out to be. They’d never see eye to eye on that. Snow White had been forced to survive running around in forests and travelling the land in secret, never staying in one place. Emma only chose to do so.

The Lady’s Inn isn’t as refined as Emma is accustomed to, but she’s also been worse places. The room has a door that locks, a chair to place in front of it for added security, a bed and a wash basin so that is all that really matters to Emma when she strips herself of her clothes and washes her face of dirt.

There’s a smattering of someone else’s blood on the back of her neck. Good fortune that the matron didn’t notice it. The moment she cleans it off, watching her own green eyed, wet-faced reflection in the recently gleamed mirror feels like the ‘what the hell am I doing?’ stage of a tale, something straight out of a book of legends.

One suchlike her self-titled guidebook.

She dries her face off on one of the complementary towels and sits down on her bed. It’s lumpy but tolerable. Grabbing her pack, she ignores the bundled sleeping clothes and digs for the book instead.

It isn’t much of a book. More fittingly, it is a journal, the stories within handwritten in looping curves that sometimes dissolved into rushed lines Emma has memorized over the many rereads that kept her up at nights. That is, before they sent her into dreams of far off lands and wildly different worlds filled with magic, good and bad, and people and creatures of all shapes, sizes, and stories unimaginable.

However, this night, she is too tired to stay awake reading the guidebook, especially with Day Three – fitting for the three men she’d defeated – of her own adventure looming ahead of her.

She opens the book to a random page and begins to read the story detailed there, but her eyes shudder with every line read, and her whole body begins to droop on the bed. She gives up less than a page in.

Tomorrow she’ll trade on her good fortune while it lasts and get the hell out of this seaside town before her adventure can finish before it even truly begins.

_Tales of an Adventurer_ still open on the start of “The Little Mermaid”, Emma clutches the book to her chest and falls into a fitful sleep.

\--

There is nothing like sleeping on scratchy sheets and tasting the sourness of ale on your tongue to put the grump in your morning.

Emma’s just about had it with herself when combing through the tangled knots nearly makes her weep. Last night had felt like a daydream. In the bright light of an actual day, it seems more like a nightmare.

There is still blood on her saber when she pulls it out of its scabbard. A vigorous scrubbing washes it off, but she can still imagine the blood when she slips it back on.

And her hair – the hair that got her into trouble is insisting on keeping her in it.

When frustration overtakes her and she yanks so hard that the comb breaks, Emma stumbles back, knees hitting the edge of the bed. She goes with it.

“The hell!” she curses.

Stabbing painfully into her back is her book. Her guide.

Her _guide_.

Smart ideas can hit you when you least expect them. Or where you least want them to. Her back pain is proof of that. And if anyone tells you that cutting your hair off with a blade is easy, they’re lying and deserve to be shot for telling tales. (Not really, but Emma’s nicked fingers don’t help with her crankiness.) She doesn’t make quick work of chopping off her normally perfectly coiffed locks, but at least it is semi-neat work.

She studies herself in the small mirror above the water basin. The short cut doesn’t draw away from her femininity, not when her breasts are still outlined in embroidery, but it’s a start.

Parting with her outfit is going to be far more painful than the cuts healing on her fingers, but let it not be said that Emma isn’t great at making do with any situation life throws at her.

She has enough gold left to buy an outfit more appropriate – and much more gold than that, but no one will know unless they strip search her, which isn’t going to be happening. The sword on her waist and her determination will stop that in its tracks.

Her good fortune from the evening before leads her down to the busy market and a vendor who not only doesn’t overcharge her, but doesn’t look too much at her purchases of the two pairs of loose fitting pants and the three raggedy oversized shirts. She adds the blue bandana on a whim – and the flat brassiere is a stroke of genius.

Emma _is_ a fast learner.

When she returns to her room and changes, she looks enough like a boy to pass muster. She looks enough like a boy to definitely not be a princess.

She winces at the thought. Her embroidered shirt will have to be sold. It’s too valuable to carry around without putting it to use. Same goes for her tight fitting riding pants. She can’t have someone recognizing the curves of a lady.

It’ll ruin the look.

What she can keep are her gloves and belted vest. The vest adds the extra layer she needs to hide her breasts completely and the gloves are easy to stuff within her satchel. They make a clever hideaway for the only jewel she brought with her on her journey: her silver swan necklace, given to her by her father when she was young.

One of the men had tried to rip it off her neck when she’d jumped out of the way of his grabbing hands. He’d lost a finger when she gifted her blade instead.

She shakes her head. If she starts thinking so much about that she’s going to hate herself for saving her own life. Hate herself for leaving the castle and putting them in the position in which her life seemed valuable enough to risk theirs.

Hate them for seeing what they assumed to be vulnerability and trying to take advantage.

“No use looking back,” she says aloud while looking back upon the room to make sure she hasn’t left anything behind.

The humor in it eases the tightness in her chest that last night’s darkness had formed.

The cleaning girl stares with wild eyes when Emma leaves the room, so Emma is certain that she looks the part she’s trying to play – and she rushes to tip a gold coin in the girl’s hands before she flees the Inn.

Pretending to be a boy isn’t going to be easy if she’s seen leaving a Lady’s Inn, but blending into the crowd proves easier than that worried flight made it seem.

As Emma walks back to the market, she considers what to call herself now that she is no longer and Emma. Emma Swan had been the name she chose to go by for this journey. Emmet Swan is an easy enough change to remember.

She sells her clothes to a different vendor than the one she purchased her outfit from. This vendor looks her over with interest, but Emma’s cold glare makes his curious questions die on his tongue.

The silver coins she gets in return for her shirt and pants jingle on her waist. Emma supposes this is where her good fortune runs afoul of the real world.

She doesn’t notice the cutpurse at first, but she feels the weight of her lost coins the moment they leave her side.

“Hey! Hey!” she shouts roughly and pushes through the crowd. “Get back here!”

The fleeing thief makes a run down in the direction of the docks many buildings and alleyways. If she lets him get that far, she’ll never see her money again.

Cursing vigorously and colorfully (her day adventures had included many trips to seaside taverns), she breaks into a sprint, but the man is still far faster than her. She isn’t going to make it.

And she doesn’t. But the man that steps away from the wall of one of the ship suppliers does. It isn’t pretty, watching him lay out the thief with his own momentum.

Emma isn’t worried about that however. Her hand goes to her sword as her seeming savior’s hand goes to the thief’s side.

He straightens. Dark hair falls across his sun kissed skin. He doesn’t have the deep tan of a man of the sea, but he holds himself like one – and his eyes seem as turbulent as the ocean when he locks them with hers.

In his long black coat, deep v’ed red vest, and with the daggered earring and the skull and bones necklace, he looks like the very description of a pirate from her guidebook…and every other pirate tale she’d read.

Emma always wanted to meet a pirate.

She doesn’t voice that stupidly childish thought. Control of herself is something she’s well-practiced at – even if she has only put it to use when holding court, a task she often snuck away from to play at being someone other than a princess.

“That’s mine,” she says when he holds her purse in his hands, jingling it like an instrument.

“Don’t worry, lad. I was only trying to help.”

“Well-” _I could’ve caught him myself_ is a lie not worth being told. “I am grateful for it. If you’d hand me my purse?”

She reaches out a hand.

Stupid ideas can hit you when you least expect them. Or when you most need them. Without a real path besides ‘get out of this town,’ Emma needs one.

“You’re a pirate?” she says when his hand touches her and she notices the brand between his forefinger and thumb, the ‘P’ of the Dust Kingdom’s captured pirates. She draws back quickly with her purse before his fingers can linger, the brief touch disconcerting enough to draw that statement from her mouth.

He chokes and Emma’s eyes fly wide until she realizes that its laughter struggling to break free.

“Come with me.”

As her father would say, _out of the stampede and off the cliff_.

(He may be a king now and for all of Emma’s 20 years of life, but he is still a shepherd at heart.)

Bad ideas always follow stupid ones, just as Emma now follows the pirate down to the sea and to the last ship docked at the harbor.

Men shout welcomes and toast with empty hands to the Pirate that Emma follows across the wooden gangplank and onto the ship. The ship itself is a sight to behold – huge and built for speed. She can tell that from the shape. Emma has read quite a few sailing books and seen many more ships.

With a flourish, the man turns before her and shouts to his crew, “The lad wants to know if I’m a pirate. Why don’t you answer him for me…Am I a pirate, gents?”

The chorusing echo of “Aye” and “Aye Captain” answers Emma’s question of his position. He grips the lapels of his shirt, shaking out his shoulders, and she can see that the Captain’s smirking smile of authority is supposed to make her feel intimidated.

Emma’s faced off against Princes and Kings. A Pirate she can handle with ease.

As she studies him, she remembers The Plan. The Plan to have an adventure, to follow the _Tales of an Adventurer_ to new lands and new people. Well, the Little Mermaid _did_ start on a pirate ship.

Emma juts her chin out, and addresses the Captain in the most mannish of voices she can manage – easy work for she’d been practicing for years, affecting both her father’s pitch and mannerisms out of an eagerness to be like him and to make him laugh when he should probably reprimand.

“Well, Captain, are you looking for a new member of your crew?”

“Am I?” He throws the question back at her.

Emma is more than up for meeting his challenge. “You are. I’m Emmet Swan, and I’ll be joining your crew.”

“Well, Swan, I, Captain Killian Jones, am happy to welcome you aboard the Jolly Roger.”

His blue eyes pour over her face, reading her as if she is a book. Emma isn’t used to someone so ready to meet her eyes, not counting said princes trying to woo her or said kings trying to woo her for their sons. More, she isn’t used _wanting_ them to do so. It always felt weird having subjects and lording over them, but she’d learned it was more uncomfortable when they became more than that – when they were friends too scared of her seeming power to do more than bow to her every demand, believe her every lie, or follow her everywhere she led.

It’s just _nice_ to look into the eyes of someone not scared of her power or even knowledgeable of it. A secret for her alone, that she can hide in a smile.

It’s that smile she offers him now.

“Thank you for allowing me this opportunity.”

He huffs out a short breath. Mouth quirking up in a grin, he leans back on his heels and says, “Such a polite sailor! Maybe you can teach a thing or two to these unmannered louts.”

A chorus of laughter follows his words. He nods his head, reveling in it. The over-dramatics must be a character trait.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Does that include _you_?”

Her breath hitches for a moment. She forces herself not to swallow, nor break his gaze even though she feels the mistake of sassing the Captain heavy on her tongue.

Well, no longer on her tongue. Let loose because she couldn’t still it. Loose lips sink ships, or so the saying goes. This one hasn’t even set sail yet.

The easy smile slips away. Replacing it is a calculating look. Where he’d been leaning back, now he leans forward, into her space. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his first mate step towards them.

“I’m already a gentleman, young Swan. I don’t need your lessons.”

From how close he is to her – she can feel his breath, warmer than the sunlight peeking through the clouds, and measure the length of the thin scar on his cheek – well, Emma is oh so tempted to say that he can certainly use them.

Her lessons.

She shakes her head, ducking to the side to hide her creeping smile. She hadn’t planned to come onto his ship as a teacher. Granted, she hadn’t _planned_ to come on his ship at all. It was…less than happy accident but – a sailor, a crewman, a fellow lout is what Emma wants to be. Damn her manners to hell, she’ll blend in if it kills her.

“Well, Emmet Swan, you’ll start off on swabbing duty.”

His mouth almost brushes her ear when he says it. She freezes again, tension in her fisted hands, but he’s already stepping back by the time she turns around to look at him.

“Smee, get him settled. Show him the ropes, and by gods, don’t forget to prep him for the sirens.”

_Sirens?_ Emma starts to ask the Captain but the portly man in the red hat – Smee – grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards the portside of the deck.

“That’s the Captain’s way of dismissing you,” Smee says to the question Emma doesn’t ask. She glances back. Captain Killian Jones has a name fitting for a gentlemen, pirate or not. He’s already barking orders at the rest of his crew.

“Don’t take it to heart. You’re young – and rather skinny. As long as you pull your weight, he’ll have no reason to ignore you, or send you walking the plank.”

“I can pull my weight and then some,” Emma says with a firm nod of her head, facing him again.

Smee’s cheeks instantly redden when he laughs. He looks like a younger Saint Nick. Neither would probably appreciate the comparison.

“I’m stronger than I look,” she protests.

“We’ll see. Come along. You have duties to attend to, and I’d like to finish this tour quickly. Do you even know the lay of a ship?”

Emma’s answer is nothing short of sly. Her court skills are coming in handy as much as her courtly attire had. “I have traveled on a few transport ships with simple cargo of food and cloth. Is the Jolly Roger much different?”

“This isn’t just a simple transport ship. This is a war vessel. More importantly, this is the Jolly Roger. The Captain wouldn’t hear of you calling it any less.”

Emma rolls her eyes only in her head. She restrains herself from doing so to his face. “So is the layout different?”

Smee’s chastising look disappears. “Not much, no.”

Emma does _not_ restrain herself from the smirk. How can she? She’s only human, princess or not, courtly upbringing be damned.

(She apologizes to her mother and father in her head which, it isn’t like they can hear her words but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Wrong her mother answers, frustrated hands flying up in Emma’s face – “If you had any thought, you’d have remained home!”

The phantom Snow White is a harbinger of things to come. Emma can feel it in her bones.)

The ship lurches as it pushes away from the docks. Her mind instantly throws her the question: If you’d known they were setting sail right at this moment would you have made the same decision?  She can’t answer it.

Emma keeps her balance from practice, and wants to wring the approving smile from Smee’s face. She’s _not_ a landlubber doing well, she’s a sailor, dammit.

Emma turns her sights on the people around her. Men busy themselves, prepping the ships sails and gathering around to settle the ship, and in them, Emma sees her father shouting orders, a smile on his face as he waves her to the wheel.

A glance back towards the Jolly’s wheel reveals Captain Jones instead. His smile is nothing like her father’s. _Pirates_ don’t have the look of Kings.

They have a look though – and this one’s directing his right at her. It was her luck that the Captain chose that moment to look up and her luck that the ship lurches again, making her the first one to break their stare.

It feels like losing. Emma hates losing.

“Come along, Emmet,” Smee says.

She follows Smee, but can’t help glancing back one more time. The wheel is spinning in his hands and if she looks right, it seems to be spinning up. If she looks left, it spins down. It feels like Fortuna’s shouting at her, “Your move, Emma!”

Emma closes her eyes and follows Smee across the ship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos' on the first chapter, I really appreciate it.

Fortune is a bitch.

Fortune is the kind of terrible, no-good, awful being that Snow White and Prince Charming would slay if they could just get their hands on it.

Damn it to hell, the Underworld, Davy Jones’ locker – damn it. _It_ being Fortune for placing Emma on this godforsaken island where she is the only one _left_ to save them all, which at this very moment, she has not the slightest inclination to do.

At least, the crew makes for rather cute, if rather dirty, piglets. That the pink nosed captain still has his daggered earring must be a testament to something.

That he keeps trying to nuzzle her knee is a testament to something worse.

Kneeling beside him, she pushes him gently away. “Come on, Captain. If you don’t stop, I’ll have to spit roast, ye,” Emma says in her best “grrr argh” impression. She’s been trying out the pirate voice. It’s working well, although she does tend to take it too far.

One of the piglets slops around in the water trough. Emma can’t resist the “Drink up me hearties, yo ho, yo ho.”

See that point about taking it too far?

The dark-skinned woman with the braided crown who finds Emma lifting the squealing piglet Captain of the Jolly Roger into her arms certainly seems to think so.

“A jaunty tune, but you’re off-key.”

“What can I say? Singing never was part of my skillset,” Emma says. Captain Jones is small enough to fit into her wide vest pocket, but it’s a little too close to her breasts for her to risk it – even if he is a piglet that hopefully (for his sake, _for Emmet’s_ ) won’t remember being so.

Emma places him back down into the little pen she’d taken him out of. She straightens, and doesn’t draw her sword yet, but she does place her hand on its hilt.

Sometimes, the sight of a threat is enough to stop a fight.

The witch woman is unintimidated, and her shrug is unimpressed. It figures. She _did_ turn the whole crew into piglets. Armed with that kind of power, Emma’s sword must look like mere needle.

The woman waves her hand. Emma freezes at the green sparkled magic that whooshes over her, but it doesn’t seem to do anything.

Well, she does feel a little cleaner which, hell, is a nice surprise. She’s half tempted to thank her possible foe because the sea is no place for a stickler for cleanliness. Emma still loves it, from its mercurial temperament (she can hear her language tutor crowing in her ear) to its color: the sea-green and deep blues, and the clear water that looks almost orange in the reflection of the Captain's crimson flag.

She'd thought it a joke when the Captain had shouted for them to "Raise the Red Sail!"

She’d still thought so after it was flapping in the northerly wind. She'd laughed under her hand, half hidden behind Smee's heavier form while he spoke to the Captain.

The past few days had turned her from deckswabber into the first mate's first mate. It was an easier job than Smee expected or even guessed. Emma had been given far harder duties sailing with the King.

Hidden as she was behind Smee, the Captain didn’t miss her laughter. He drew a hand for Smee to step back and, leaning on the railing in a lazy but tightly held pose, stared at Emma.

"I see that sirens are a joke to you, Emmet. Are you ready to take them all on by yourself, then?"

"I'm no hero," Emma said, raising her hands with attrition that she certainly did not feel.

Captain Jones may not have an eye for ship decoration, but he certainly had one for bullshit.

"Aye, so you're just a boy eager to lead the Pirate life?"

She smirked at the ‘boy’ comment, and smirked wider at his exasperation.

"You lead, Captain. I'll follow."

Captain Jones had made the snappy retort all too easy. The hearty laughter that caught him afterwards was the same, all too easy on her ears.

Instead of thanking the witch for the cleansing and short trip down memory lane, Emma remembers herself and her fingers twitch, ready to let her blade run free.

The witch grows annoyed and her magic whooshes again, sending Emma's hand flying from her sword. She doesn't draw it but the message is clear: she can if she wants to.

"Enough of this. Come. I would like to speak with you.”

“What about my crew?”

They both look at the piling piglets running circles around the pen, squealing and pressing at the bars. Her piglet captain looks as forlorn as piglets can, even when joined by the fat, redheaded and red-faced piglet that used to be Smee.

They’re not going anywhere any time soon.

“They’ll be fine,” the woman says and beckons Emma with the crook of her finger.

Her green nail polish sparkles just like her magic. Must be an aesthetic choice.

Emma walks across the all marble, sea-stone lined room. She didn't have time to admire the beauty of the high ceilings or the sculptures of agonized men carved into the walls earlier. Nor does she spend the walk admiring them now. Something about pain in marble detail just doesn't appeal to her.

Probably the pain.

The heels of Emma’s boots echo the sound of the witch's heels as they ascend a flight of stairs, which Emma is only slightly surprised to discover are lifted on the shoulders of a crying man.

This aesthetic is going to be the death of her. Figuratively. The death of her crew, probably literally.

"Do you know why I've brought you here?" asks the witch.

They’re at the summit now, a circular base with a pool of clear water that trickles out into a mighty, foaming waterfall on the edges of the base. On the disconcertingly thin railings sit – hah – a _murder_ of crows, all twenty or so pairs of creepy eyes peering at Emma with avid interest.

Watching the crows, Emma offers, "A slow and painful death?"

“Oh, ignore them, look at me.”

Emma does, happily. The crows are giving her chills.

“I brought you here to offer you a way out.”

Emma feels her brows meet in the center. It’s not an unconscious motion. She is _very_ aware that her face is doing the ‘I have no clue what you’re talking about’ thing, the scrunched up, highly unattractive thing. She just can’t seem to stop it from doing so because dammit, she’s confused.

“A way out of what? Here? I’m not leaving without my crew.”

This _confuses_ the witch. One of her braids flies free when she tosses her head to the side and slaps her hands on her hips. “Why not? What loyalty do you have to them? Certainly, your parents come first.”

Emma jerks her head to meet the witch’s eyes. She narrows her own, hand reaching for her blade again, this time with intent. “What do you know about my parents?”

The witch rolls her eyes so long that Emma’s certain she is looking at galaxies on the inside of her skull.

“Why don’t you speak to them yourself? I can see why they’re having so much trouble with you.”

Confusion drops Emma’s hand from her sword. Surprise makes her jump sky high – an easy feat when the clouds are floating only inches above her head. She swears they hadn’t climbed high enough to reach them, but well, witches equal magic, magic equals scaling from ground to sky in less than forty steps.

“Emma, I know you heard me. Oh, look what did you do to your beautiful hair!”

 _Magic_.

Of course, it is one of the crows speaking. Why couldn’t her mother have learned to speak to anything besides scary eyed birds? Even fish would be better than staring into the white eyes of these crows – though, thinking back on the fish they’d eaten for dinner the other night…well, birds still make her skin crawl.

“Mother.”

“Don’t ‘mother’ me. You ran away, nearly got yourself kidnapped.” She pauses, sounding impressed when she says, “Managed to fend off your three kidnappers but then _cut your hair_ and hopped on the first ship you could find. A _pirate_ ship.”

She quiets again. Emma doesn’t bother to ask how her mother knows everything that has happened since Emma’s so-called escape. That would be an invitation to a tedious listing the Royal Aviary’s birds of prey.

She watches the crow’s chest lift up and fall down in time to Snow’s heavy sigh. It is the freakiest thing Emma has seen today and that is counting the enchanted feast, her piglet crew, the aggrieved architecture, and the witch, only five feet away from her, cooing at the crows and hand feeding them water direct from the rain clouds.

“Emma, what are you doing?”

Good question. She’ll totally let her mother know when she knows herself. It had seemed so simple days ago. An adventure!

Now, Emma is trapped on an island with a witch, thinking about all the ways piglets can be killed and cooked.

“Trying to save my crew at the moment. A little help would be appreciated.”

Her mother starts to laugh and it chokes off quickly to be replaced by her father’s voice, respectful and steady unlike Emma – and her mother, whose laughter keeps filtering in and out. It’s a strange day when Emma’s attitude is more in common with her mother’s than her father.

“Queen Circe, would you do me the honor of setting her… _crew_ free?”

 _Circe_. Of fucking course.

Emma should’ve known. She is in her guidebook for gods’ sakes – gods including Circe herself. Emma gives herself some credit – Circe was in there for only one line beneath the ‘Witches to Be Avoided’ headline. Just her name and “Yes, avoid, unless you’re a woman. She is a great hostess for women, but still avoid. The pork is people.”

_The pork is people._

‘Please don’t eat my sort-of acquaintances, sort-of friends,’ probably isn’t going to work in this situation.

She breathes out a held breath when Circe replies to her father. “Are you cashing in my debt, your majesty?”

Emma can see her father gritting his teeth, which makes her feel simultaneously bad _and_ worse when he says, “I am.”

Circe smiles with the satisfaction of a witch that has eaten and served _far_ too many men.

“You’re very kind.”

\--

Emma tells Smee she battled the witch for their freedom and won it with a daring leap and the point of her saber at the witch’s throat.

Smee believes her for about five minutes.

To one of the deckhands, she says, “When I saw you all turn into pigs, I decided to opt out of the poisoned food and hid until I could sneak into the witch’s stores and steal the antidote.”

As apparently no one saw her gulping down the same large helpings of food that they did, the story is disseminated throughout the men with ease and evolves into wilder and wilder tales of epic thievery and avoiding guards of mountainous heights – impossible considering Circe had high ceilings, not ones large enough to house giants which they should know. They were there.

Emma appreciates the slaps on her back for a little while (after the third one, she starts to feel bruised), but her story doesn’t seem to catch on with the person that matters most.

Captain Jones is one of the last to take the longboats back to the Jolly, and as luck would have it, so is Emma. With Circe’s magic makeover enchanted bracelet to make her look more convincing (“You’re lucky these men are idiots, as men so often are. I saw right through your disguise in moments”) Emma feels more than comfortable for the first time, standing beside him on the sandy beach.

The sight of the blue sea lapping at the white sand with waves crashing in the distance stuns Emma to silence. She breathes in the salt spray from the water, the scent of broken coconuts and split oranges that they collected from the bountiful island trees on their run from Circe’s palace down to the beach.

(More like unwieldy jog from Circe’s palace. Being piglets didn’t help their fine motor skills. Emma has seen enough fallen pirates and their pirate booty to last her a lifetime.)

Her next inhale goes awry when another slap lands on her back and the hand stays there, holding her tight. She gathers her breath again and is about to call the unruly knave out when they speak.

“I’ve heard of your great feats, Emmet, but something tells me my men are over exaggerating when they say you took on an ogre singlehandedly to win our freedom. Truly, how did you manage to secure our escape?”

His eyes glitter in the sunlight when Emma glances back to look at him. Emma feels too dumbstruck by the sight to truly lie. Shrugging out of his grip, she says, “I talked my way out of it. She’s pretty reasonable when she’s not turning men into piglets.”

“And you managed to dispel her power…?”

“Because I’m immune to her magic. Old family secret,” Emma says with a wink.

The Captain stares.

“It’s in the blood,” Emma explains her lie. She is glad she doesn’t have to worry about her voice breaking anymore either. The gifted bracelet not only gives her a more mannish look (Circe should sell these instead of eating people; it’s much better for return business) it also gives her the voice to match…and other things that come in handy when being a woman on a pirate ship. Her luck would’ve been bound to run out some time (probably sometime in the next week if she’s counted correctly) and then the jig would be up.

Emma wants to keep dancing as long as possible.

(She wishes she had someone else to laugh at her joke.)

“So you just _convinced_ her to let us go.”

Emma nods. “It was fairly simple persuasion. Pirates don’t make for very appetizing meals.”

The Captain seems so offended by this that Emma has to laugh and ask, “Would you have preferred to be chopped up and served on a platter?”

“Well, of course not, Emmet, but I’d think I make a very attractive specimen, even as a pig.”

“Piglet, and you were quite adorable.”

The Captain shrugs and leans forward into her space. “The Captain of the Jolly Roger is not adorable. Handsome, fearsome…”

“Adorable,” Emma breathes.

She’s acting quite a fool, but foolishness is a freedom that royal life never afforded her. She has always been forced to steal short bittersweet bursts of it before now, knowing that her chances to be young and foolish were few and far between for a future Queen. Finding it on a pirate ship seems fateful.

 _Fortunate_.

(Oh, not Fortuna again.)

The Captain sniffs and says, “You are not the obedient, polite young man I thought.”

“Is that really what you wanted from me? Buddy, I joined _your_ crew.”

“Your snide remarks do you a disservice.”

Emma closes her mouth at the consideration in his eyes, fearful that she has gone too far. He _is_ a pirate. He could run her through at any second for insubordination. No need to walk the plank when he can leave her dead body lying on a beach with a Goddess known for eating people; Emma would be an easy meal.

“Your heroism favors you however. I do appreciate that you didn’t leave me and these poor sods to the mercies of that witch.”

Relief sets her skin alight, makes her giddy. Emma is tempted to play the pirate that she’s been practicing. To spit on the sand and say, “Aye, and does that appreciation come in gold and silver framing?”

Temptation pulled them onto Circe’s island, obviously more dangerous to people than curiosity is to the cat.

“I’ll keep up the good work, then.”

Emma salutes.

The Captain stares and blinks ever so slowly. The wind spins his already messy hair about his head. Circe even gave him a good cleaning, too. How kind of the woman so eager to cannibalize them.

“I’m sure you shall. I see great things for you, Emmet.”

He pauses, watching the longboat approach the shore. Water laps at Emma’s boots. She feels the little waves and her skin shivers as her heart beats in time to the motion of the sea.

“You and I’ll make quite the team.”

\--

It is only when they’re both sitting in the longboat, Emma rowing beside one of _Emmet’s_ new fans (something about saving people makes them want to proclaim their love for you), that Emma thinks to turn to the Captain and say, “Sailing these seas as you have, did you not expect this to be Circe’s Island?”

His eyes snap to her face. He’d been staring at her arms. True, she hasn’t bared them since she made the ship her adventuring vessel, but she doesn’t think they’re that interesting. Besides, the sweat on her arms – or Emmet’s – probably isn’t the most appealing of subjects.

“Damn witch keeps changing locations and visages. She was much younger last we met.”

 _Last we met_.

“You managed to survive? How?”

Captain Jones smiles. Emma suspects if he had a hat, he’d tip it. She has seen enough noblemen do it to recognize that look.

It must be the gentleman in Killian Jones at work.

“That’s a tale for another time, lad. Perhaps when you’re older.”

Emma would scoff that she isn’t that much younger than him, but his words are meant to dismiss and she doesn’t have the energy to argue. The sea is fighting them now and the Captain’s just sitting there, watching them suffer.

She wipes the sweat slipping down her cheek on the shoulder of her shirt as best she can and glares into the distance.

“Put your back into it, men! We have a timetable to stick to. It’s not good business to keep a man waiting.”

 _Screw him_ , Emma thinks quite spitefully as she spits over the side of the boat and hears three other men do the same. She huffs a laugh. She’s getting the hang of this pirate thing already.

(Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Suggested visual for Oz](http://emmasneverland.tumblr.com/post/75687415474/its-not-a-place-you-can-get-to-by-a-boat-or-a)

Killian – and she’s allowed to call him that now because running for your life with someone will put you on a first name basis –  _Killian_ is the worst pirate to ever happen to her.

Granted she only knows about forty something in total now, but he’s, without a doubt, the worst.

And it’s twice now she has saved his life. She should be getting a reward for this, not dodging the snapping jaws of sirens.

Speaking of sirens, she wishes that these were the kind that stick to the sea. That would be so much easier to manage than the half woman – the leggy half – and half bird – the biting, clawing, rending half – chasing them across the sandy beach.

She’s far too out of breath to yell at him, which is great because she probably shouldn’t even if he deserves it. Even _if_ he’s laughing like this is the most fun he has had in a while and wiggling his eyebrows back at her, inviting her to do the same.

( _Oh, hell._ )

“You told us to cover our ears!” Emma yelled. It sounded much manlier coming from _Emmet’s_ mouth.

“I wanted to hear its song. And, to be quite honest, it was a waste. I’ve heard better.”

A punch to the jaw would accentuate his features quite nicely. Right where his beard meets his bottom lip, where it’s already bruised from trying to _kiss_ the damn bird lady.

(Has her mother ever faced that problem or is it just a male thing?)

“Its song? Its _song_? It screeched!”

“Not in my ears.”

It sounds like an innuendo. What’s worse is that it’s meant to. As reluctant as she is to admit that her Captain – _Killian_ makes her think of things far different than her few kisses and tentative touches in the taverns closest to the castle, the image playing in her head right now is the exact opposite of appealing. It’s so unappealing that she’s afraid to close her eyes lest the vision become real. If this is how sirens are born, she doesn’t want to know.

Gods help her stop giving him that sidelong glance like he could be the father of one those beasts. Gods help her from being tempted to ask her mother.

(With her luck, Circe’s the only god listening and she’s too busy blowing on her green painted nails and saying, “You should’ve just let me eat him” to stop Emma’s eyes from bleeding.)

The siren screeches again. Loud enough that it makes Emma’s ears ring. She looks back just for a second and loses her footing. The sand softens her fall but it doesn’t matter, not when it gives the siren a chance to overtake her.

“Are you ready to die for me, Emma?”

Emma stares, aghast at the horrid bird breath and the disgustingly human voice. Killian’s right. She’s heard better songs than this, too. Her real name sounds like the scratch of a rake on stone. Simply awful.

The siren leans in like it is attempting the same “kiss” it tried on Killian and Emma closes her eyes just to avoid the sight. Bird beaks are not what sets her stomach aflutter.

Her hand moves to her sword. Time to ruffle a few feathers.

If anyone ever asks you if you’d like to harvest your own chicken, don’t. It’s not a sight worth seeing.

Sadly, it is burned into Emma's brain: the sight, the smell, and the sound of the siren dying. Her head feels like an echo chamber of the worst sounds anyone could endure.

Up to and including Killian's laugh as he reaches down a hand to help her up. Surprise keeps her on the ground momentarily. The cries of other sirens have her up in a second. A crash of reality, hitting too hard for her to remain surprised by a pirate captain's helpful hand.

The sirens begin their song again, and it’s just annoying - no musical quality to it. The royal music director would have a conniption if anyone called it a song.

(Emma wishes she had a way to record it. She's never liked him much anyway.)

"Come on, Emmet, now's not the time to fall down on the job."

He sounds out of breath. Good. It's better than he deserves.

Emma smells like chicken guts. She'll have to burn this whole outfit just to get the stench out.

"I've a man to see, an _important_ package to deliver."

She skates past a sand dune, boots kicking up sand in Killian's direction. She hears him gag and feels a similar satisfaction with the longboat in sight, several of his crew at the helm. There is one thing Emma can say for certain about Killian's men, besides that hygiene to them seems to be more of a suggestion than guidelines to adhere to: they are loyal to their captain.

Thank the Gods or both she and Killian would be bird chow.

(God, she _stinks_.)

"Our salvation!" Killian declares, throat clear of sand.

Emma flies into the boat, she really does. She jumps high and kicks out, right into the middle of the already rowing crew. Salt water splashes when her fall rocks the boat. Killian's a bit gentler.

Emma shrugs away her father's sarcastic voice: she _truly_ has her mother's gentle touch.

(And her father's ability to avoid danger. Truly a product of them both. True love in a blood covered, out of breath and cares to give form.)

He collapses beside her on the boat. Too tired to give orders, not that his ear plugged companions would hear them, Killian simply pants, interspersed with tired laughter.

His hand reaches out to pet her on the head. That she still has the ability to freeze up in fear - and in annoyance; she's no pet - is a mark of her strength.

"Thank you, Emmet. You have a hero underneath that pirate exterior."

_You have an idiot underneath yours._

She doesn't say this. But she really does she want to.

"Mmhmm," she _does_ say. Emma also moves away from the hand running dangerously close to touching her face. Patting is one annoying thing. Stroking is territory she has no (real) wish to discover.

Speaking of territory...

"Captain Jones, where are we going? This seems to be in the direction of the Dust Kingdom. Does your man live there?"

"My man lives a bit farther than that, Emmet."

She can't see the considering look on his face, not when she's staring up into the red hued sky, common to the Dust Kingdom - they didn't call it that for fun; its dust, sand heated to supernova under the low hanging, body licking flames of the sun. However, Emma can hear it in Killian's voice - and the long pause before he speaks.

"You are awful knowledgeable of the Dust Kingdom's location. Not many men know of its existence, nor of its location. Not many men wish to. How did you come to have such information?"

Emma smiles thinly. Taking a page from her guidebook (literally), she says, "I like to read."

"What manner of book details those coordinates?"

"The kind, Captain, which a poor street urchin can snag from the stores of a royal carriage."

Not quite a lie. A poor street urchin _could_ have stolen the guidebook. Emma wasn't very careful with her belongings when she was younger and eager to dig through them and find her book during the long stop for her mother to visit the homes of some of the people who helped her survive during her outlaw years.

The lie however is in that she doesn't need to know the coordinates to know the Dust Kingdom. She knows it intimately from her own visits there as a child.

The Saurotars of the Dust Kingdom are fierce allies and curious princesses make for good relations. Especially ones like Emma, or so they said when she would stare into their blue eyes with admiration and wish she had a tail capable of carrying a sword too.

She'd be eager to return - as a princess. As a pirate, not so much. Pirates are unloved there.

Killian would know.

(What would her parents say if she returned home with a P burned into her skin?

P for Pirate.

P for Princess.

P for Pariah.)

"Poor street urchin, eh? You must be the cleanest and most genteel street urchin I've ever encountered."

Emma freezes again. "I - haven't been one for a while. Thievery pays."

She sits up in time to see her words tug a smile from his lips. His eyes crinkle while he stares up at her. Star struck would be the word to describe it.

(Well, the sun _is_ a star.)

"Piracy pays better."

"We've arrived, Captain," Private Pedro says, tapping Killian with the butt of his sword. He used to be in the Queen's army, years ago, before Emma was old enough to be recognizable, though it did strike fear in her when she first heard his named called across the deck. Emma's had a few run-ins with privates. Some would say that it's the Privates job to defend her from herself. (Some would be Mistress Helena and half the kitchen staff when they think Emma can't hear.)

"Smee!" Killian calls up as the longboat is pulled in to the ship.

Emma sees the red hat before she sees Smee. He points an accusing finger at her.

"I told you not to jump in."

Her pirate voice is perfect now. She's been mimicking Killian. He's a good teacher, and Emma as always (...sometimes) is an apt pupil.

Affecting that voice, she replies, "Couldn't hear you over the earplugs, mate."

"At least Emmet was brave enough to save his captain from his own idiocy. The same cannot be said for you lay-about good for nothings -"

"Good for something: watching us drown."

She only _half_ meant to mutter that. The other half of her is pleased at the way he chokes and slaps a hand on her back.

The _other_ half feels the sticky, sandy, gross chicken covered clothes clinging to her body and wants to jump in the ocean. Salt water is better than this.

Emma stares at the reddish waters thoughtfully.

"Oh, just get the ship ready, full speed ahead to the Doors, Smee."

Smee shivers, mouth turns down in resignation. "Tornado season."

"Aye, tornado season. Time to deliver the package."

Emma frowns and watches as Smee disappears to relay Killian's orders to the crew. The other men ascend the rope ladders, but Emma and Killian remain below, still too out of breath to join them yet.

It's this moment alone that encourages Emma to voice the question that's been flitting in and out for days now.

"May I ask, what is this package, Captain? Because the way you say it sounds a lot like murder and I'm not here for that."

Stone-faced Killian turns to her. He doesn't hold the expression for long, face breaking into the look of sarcasm he's given her and concussed crewmen alike when they've asked questions he thinks they should know the answer to already.

(Honestly, how was Emma to know he liked his tea with a bit of rum? She's not his maid - that's Smee's job, which he does quite well. Emma has no interest in stealing it.

She noted his particular taste, however, filed under: Killian Jones is an alcoholic.

So is Emma at this point. Fresh water is hard to come by on the open sea.)

"You did sign up to be a pirate. You know that this is what we do right? Pillage?"

Her throat closes up. Yes, she did know, in the back of her mind where she tossed aside her misgivings to focus on actually living _and_ staying alive.

"Don't worry, Emmet. Killing is not something my men and I do with ease. And no, it isn't an assassination. It is, as I said, an important delivery that shall earn this crew our weight in gold from -"

He leans forward and peers at Emma carefully. Emma is very aware of her breathing and how it makes her breasts rise with each gratifying breath. Not that he can see them. And not that she wishes he did. (At least, not on the days when her monthly cycle aren't messing with her head.)

"You've heard of Oz. In your readings, I presume."

Filed under: Witches to Be Avoided: The Wicked One.

"Yea."

"Well, with the Wicked Witch's fall to Dorothy, many of those she cursed were healed. Some have not been so lucky, but I've ...procured -"

(Read: stolen)

"- an antidote for those afflicted with the flying simian form."

Flying monkeys. That had been listed under the Wicked Witch's page, next to: Not friendly, do not engage.

"So you have a buyer?" Emma asks curiously.

"Several, in fact, but he's both their representative and a buyer himself. Although, the Wizard would prefer as few as possible know that."

_The Wizard of Oz disappeared around the beginning of the Wicked Witch’s reign, presumably killed by her or one of her minions._

Well, not quite.

"And you're telling me."

"Well you've proven yourself, Emmet. Trustworthy, loyal."

Emma grins, suddenly energized enough to take the climb up to the ship.

"Maybe I'm fooling you,” she says, one foot on the ropes, the other already rising above it.

"Perhaps, and if you are, I sure hope you're prepared to reap the consequences."

Her grin widens. "And the rewards."

"Oh go on and tell Smee he's to let you bathe. You smell like a rotting fish."

(Probably the last thing that bird ate.)

This would be the point she’d curtsy and smile demurely if she were at home.

"Thank you, Captain. You are too kind."

He climbs fast. Either that or he has raced to meet her.

"Probably true," he says, almost in her ear, his shoulder knocking against hers on the swaying rope. "But it's only good form, lad"

A pirate worried about good form. Almost as strange as a pirate princess.

\--

"The Doors" are not doors and Emma is _so_ glad, simple _overjoyed_ this wasn't in her guidebook, otherwise she might've been prepared.

It is tornado season here, and by tornado season they mean, this sea is only tornadoes, waiting to swallow up unwary ships – or ships that are _looking_ to be swallowed. Captain Jones had assured them they’d be safe on the Jolly, but they're swallowed within the center of the storm, flying higher and circling wider.

She has a strong stomach but even this is testing her. Half the crew's already emptied theirs over the side of the ship. The other half has ducked away to avoid the flying vomit.

Emma is ecstatic that she's no longer the person whose duty is to swab the deck.

"Oi, we're reaching the top. Hold on, sailor."

Several men clutch aquamarines, totems, and tokens of luck to their mouths in a kiss before grabbing onto the ropes. Fortuna must be spinning her wheel as fast as the tornado's winding circle.

Emma's squished between two of the fatter sailors, but where she'd fear, she feels only safety. One hand holds her steady as she lurches forward.

"Thank you," she breathes and grips the rope tighter.

He grunts and does the same.

Out of the dark greying gloom of the storm, they pop right into the sunlight of a summer's day. The boat sways, but doesn’t jerk as it did within the storm. Without moving, Emma can see the houses and fields the Jolly flies by. Her hand feels frozen in a grip when she releases the rope and stands. While she shakes out her hand, she surveys her new surroundings. They're rushing down a river of brilliant blue, like the aquamarines the sailors kiss again and again in thanks. Cobbled roads of red and purple are burned into the riverbed and the yellow trees stretch their fingers to the sky.

Her eyes stray to one, a magenta topped tree in a sea of yellow. Her skin prickles with suspicion that finds its roots in the way the tree explodes into a horde of magenta butterflies that swirl into the sky. She's no stranger to magic, but this magic is so strange that Emma feels she's stepped right into her guidebook. Right into the adventures that captured her heart.

Emma is instantly in love with the flying birds who sing songs of meadows filled with endless rows of flowers, of talking scarecrows and ruby red slippers that shine (“and shine and shine” – Emma is completely unsurprised that these birds have a tendency to repeat that line. They are crows after all.)

She already adores the bug eyed fairies that fly into her face and try to whisper secrets in her ears.

"Don't let the little bastards trick you. They're a wily lot. They'll send you into a bog if they get the chance."

Emma sobers, and yet, the fairy now perched on her shoulder only shrugs at the sailor and blinks its big eyes at her.

"Yeah, me too," she agrees.

The sun is familiar but it has so much _more_ in it. Brighter rays. Yellows of varying shades that even paint the dirty sailors in their glow. And in the light, she can see sparks that flicker in and out of view. Magic in the very air she breathes.

"We'll dock in Emerald City!" Killian shouts over the dull murmur. When he's captured everyone's attention, including Emma's, he says, "Remember, men, don't eat the apples. Those trees will tear you limb to limb for even trying."

Good to know. And it isn't in Emma's guidebook. She'll purchase a quill and some ink when they land and add it in herself. Oz has become the first adventure that she hasn't read. It makes her head run away with dreams of the fantastic.

Emma is called away from fantasy to help Smee take stock of what they'll need to replenish. By the end of that tedious but necessary work, the ship has made shore and the men's stampeding feet issue in a new excitement.

"The Captain wants you with him," Smee says. "You’re the delivery party."

"So, what? Is he expecting an ambush for me to save him again?"

A snicker makes Emma sigh.

"Not quite, Emmet. I thought you'd just like to accompany me to meet our buyer."

Questions of _why_ flutter by. Emma tosses aside everyone, shrugs and turns to face her Captain. In the dim light of the cargo hold, his smile looks sinister. Emma feels not the tiniest bit like he actually looks the Pirate now.

Fearsome. Handsome.

"I'll go, Captain."

"There's a good lad. Come along then."

"But -"

Killian stops mid-step outside the hold. An eyebrow raised, he asks, "Yes."

"I'd like to purchase a few things from town. Necessary items."

Items more necessary than he'll need to know. Circe hadn't solved _all_ her womanly problems.

"Put them on the list for Smee."

"No."

At his look, she shakes her head. Too much regality in her tone. She's been working too hard to be subordinate to screw it up with her monthly crankiness.

"I mean, I refuse to inconvenience him. Smee told me I'd have to carry on my weight. I assumed it included this as well."

Killian's expression twinges with disapproval, but Emma isn’t intimidated. They stare, eyes locked in a contest of wills. She has the stubbornness of her father and the steel of her mother.

Captain Killian Jones never stood a chance.

"Alright, Swan, if you insist on spending your gold, who am I to stop you?"

Emma grins. She always enjoys a hard win.

"We'll make the delivery and then I shall lead you to town where you can make your purchases."

She opens her mouth, almost about to ask 'And what shall you do?' but stops herself from being too prying.

( _You're not the obedient, polite young man that I thought_.)

(True on all accounts, but Emma can pretend better than he thinks.)

"Gather whatever you need for shore, and then meet me on the dock. Be quick about it, please. I'm eager for my payment."

_Of course you are._

Emma doesn't scurry away; she's not a rat. But she is "quick about it," gathers her hidden coins and her book from her bunk. She nearly leaves her gloves behind, but thinks better of it, wanting the Swan necklace close.

A lucky charm.

(Gods, she needs to stop calling on Fortuna's name. She just might appear.)

She even decides to put it on. The silver chain is all that shows beneath her many layers, of which she plans to also purchase new ones. She'd scrubbed as best she could but it still carries the faint scent of her encounter with the siren. If she has to smell it much longer, she’ll end up like the poor sods heaving over the side of the windswept Jolly.

It feels cool against her neck when she steps onto the docks and Killian whistles her forward. She follows him through the teeming streets, past the crowds of chatting townsfolk and down empty back alleys that lead towards the emerald castle at the center of Emerald city.

(The naming may not be creative, but at least they’re upfront about it.)

“The wizard lives in a castle?”

A booming voice surrounds them. “The wizard lives everywhere.”

Emma is quick to quell the threat, but Killian’s hands stop her from drawing her sword. “ _Walsh_ likes his theatrics. Come on.”

“You aren’t fun, Captain Jones.”

Killian whistles another jaunty tune that sounds remarkably like the “You can kiss me where the sun doesn’t shine,” birdsong back home.

(Parrots have a creative sense of humor.)

Walsh the Wizard, obviously expecting them, draws the doors open as soon as they arrive. The booming voice returns, but Emma is no longer intimidated which is probably why, when the door shuts behind them, the man behind the voice reveals himself.

“Well, hello,” he says – not to Killian, but to her.

His eyes stray over her and Emma feels Killian’s eyes do the same.

“What is it?” Killian asks.

Emma pulls out her mask of innocence and wears it over the fast beating of her treacherous heart.

Walsh finally snaps his eyes away from her. “ _He’s_ just a bit young to be a part of your crew, isn’t he?”

“I’m nearly 21. I’m not a child,” Emma says, her fear giving away to near righteous anger. If another person calls her young for not being ancient, Emma is going to scream and punch them, probably. Or something a little more sneaky, if she doesn’t let her anger get the better of her. Anyone and everyone, except her Captain, even though he looks to be around only 24 himself, and sometimes even younger, when the spray of water flattens his hair to his forehead and he’s had a fresh shave so his beard and moustache are shorter than usual.

“I meant young in -”

Walsh waves his hand and the magic in the motion makes her head spin.

“You’re a bit naïve, aren’t you?”

It doesn’t sound sinister and in fact, there’s a warm smile on his face, but Killian is frozen beside her and Emma knows danger when she sees it.

He senses this. “Princess Emma, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m supposed to trust the word of a man that’s just magicked my Captain into a statue?”

Walsh seems stumped by this for a moment. “Well…” He regains his smile and snaps his fingers. “Well, no, you don’t have to trust me, but you can trust your parents, right? They let you have the gift I sent a couple of years back? The collection of curiosities?”

Emma remembers that vaguely. She remembers never finding the bottom of the box of trinkets, even though from the outside it looked to only be a foot deep.

She remembers the card attached had a W on it, and her mother saying…

“Wiz. Wizard.”

Worry assuaged, sort of, Emma releases her sword handle.

“How did _you_ figure me out?”

(And why the hell does she keep ending up here? Is her face too round or something?)

“It's the chin,” Walsh says, a much humored glint to his eyes. “You have the chin of a princess. Its luck that these idiots don't see it.”

“Bullshit,” Emma says.

She can always tell when someone is lying. It’s her talent, one that she’s honed from the silken words of nobles and the tales of soldiers, and her parents attempts to convince her that staying in the Castle for this ball “could be fun.”

(Yeah, not when half the men are clubfooted and the ladies are too scared to dance with the Princess).

Hands held up in faked confusion (what an amateur), he says, “I don’t know…”

His face falls. He _does_ know, and he’s realized he isn’t going to get anywhere with her. Much like with Killian, her stubbornness wins out.

"It’s just magic. Magic I use to read people because it’s good practice to know who you're doing business with."

Emma hisses under her breath. "Of course, it is.”

A glance back at Killian finds him still frozen in place. Mid-smirk, he looks devious. “You cannot tell him. You'll get me killed, or worse."

Walsh gives the frozen Killian a sidelong glance. "I doubt that. Of the pirates I’ve traded with, he's probably the best. Good form and all that. He truly means it."

His words sit comfortably in the back of Emma’s mind, like it just fits that Killian is some kind of genuine.

(He _is_ , after all, the worst pirate she’s ever encountered.)

Still she asks, "What? You can read his mind?"

Walsh waves his hand. "No, I’m no Professor X.” The reference means nothing to her. He’s not in any of the books Emma has read. “I can’t read his mind, just his heart. An ability I bought from a spectacular witch. Terrifying, but spectacular."

"Oh, I'm sure."

Filed under: Witches to Be Avoided: The Heart Eater. Reads your heart. Uses your deepest desires against you.

Yeah, Emma _is_ sure.

Walsh stares at her for a while without speaking. There’s _that_ look on his face, and he’s cute, floppy hair that curls around his ears, a kind albeit secretive smile, and deep brown eyes, but Emma isn’t interested. Especially not with Killian frozen beside her, just waiting to pop back to life and see what Walsh sees despite the haircut growing too fast for its own good and the magic makeover that Emma has yet to test for what she most needs it for.

“Are you going to let him go?”

Walsh blinks. “Yes, yes.”

He waves his hand and Killian blinks to life, still smirking.

“Oh, Walsh, leave it alone. Emmet isn’t that young, and the lad’s proven himself quite capable of standing behind the very best.”

( _Behind?_ )

“I suppose that means you, right?”

Killian nods. “You _are_ as bright as you claim.”

“Like a diamond,” Walsh confirms.

Another reference lost on her.

“I’d like to see the potion first, before I issue your payment,” Walsh says. “I have to test that it’ll work. I’ve had far too many people try to sell me fakes.”

“With the amount of money you’re offering, does it truly come as a surprise?”

You’ll get _grandmas_ packing on the pounds for their weight in gold.

(Grandmother, what a big stomach you have! _The better to feed you with, my dear._ )

From inside his huge leather jacket, Killian pulls out a large vial of pale pink liquid. When it sloshes as he holds it over Walsh’s hand, it foams ruby red.

“I’ll do you one better, mate. Test it yourself.”

For a moment, Walsh looks torn. The next, he’s holding out a finger for Killian to pour a single drop of the pink liquid on. When it touches his skin, it foams red shoots that encircle his skin and seem to pierce it.

His eyes go the same shade of red. Emma takes a step back. Killian may be stupidly brave, but at least she won’t get trapped within the same danger that she’s starting to think she’ll have to save him from.

(Standing behind the very best? More accurately, standing behind the very stupid.)

Walsh’s transforms into one of the flying monkeys Emma has read about. Hairy beast with red eyes, sharpened teeth and large leathery wings. Emma takes another step back, but Walsh returns to human form long before Emma starts to release her sword.

“It works,” he breathes out. His smile is even brighter than before.

She amends her earlier thought of Killian into highly confident instead. _He_ must read her mind, then, because he turns and winks.

“You didn’t think I’d let a Wizard get the best of me?”

Emma wisely keeps her mouth shut.

“So, my payment?” Killian asks when Walsh reaches out to grab the now resealed vial.

Walsh’s fingers snap and at his feet a chest appears. Killian kicks it open with his foot. “Is this real gold?”

“You know I’m good for my word.”

“I do, but I have to ask.”

In a mimic of Killian’s earlier words, “Test it yourself.”

Killian leans down to dig through the gold and lifts one to his nose, sniffing it. Emma sighs and turns her head towards the room that she has barely paid attention to since she entered. You would think that as an adventurer she _would_ pay more attention to her surroundings but she’d been too distracted by Walsh’s recognition and his transformation.

The room is lined with winding staircases that lead up to rooms she can’t see and beneath the staircases are walls of yellow light interspersed with spires of glowing green liquid – pointless decorations, Emma knows because her castle has a few just like them. It’s all an illusion to distract from the real treasure in the room, behind the curtain at the back.

Walsh isn’t paying attention so Emma pulls it back to see the room behind. The bed and poster are mundane, but the shelf of books and potions does look of interest.

“Did you try to steal from one of the Dust Merchants? _On land_?”

Emma glances back, curious to hear the story too. Killian’s jaw twitches.

“It’s a miracle you’re alive.”

“Not a miracle, but ingenuity,” Killian snaps.

“Well, you win some, you lose some and sometimes you get branded for it.”

Emma looks away, moves towards the row of bottles on the wall. One of them looks particularly interesting, a bottle with a drawing of a flower, colored red by careful fingers. The drawing in her guidebook is messy, but still she recognizes it.

Filed under: World Specific Magical Plants: Poppies. Found only in Oz. The dust of a single poppy can knock out even a giant.

She easily slips the bottle right within the inner pocket of her vest. Walsh is too busy teasing Killian to notice. And her Captain looks furious.

Emma starts to move another bottle into the empty space her thievery left behind, but finds the pink bottle in her hand warm to the touch. There is no name or picture on it and the coloring is nothing she’s ever seen described, but she feels a pull towards it. She grabs it as well and folds this one into the cleavage of her shirt.

“Emmet, let’s leave the man to his potions and magic. I’m about done here.”

Emma steps away from the bottles and returns to Killian’s side. She glances at Walsh and he winks at her while Killian lifts the heavy chest with both hands.

“You can’t always get what you want, Killian,” Walsh sings and Killian storms off, lugging along the chest with both hands.

Emma sighs. Walsh’s poppy dust jingles in her pocket, but he’s too distracted to notice. She grins as she catches up to Killian to grab the other handle out of his hands.  He glares at her.

(Oh, come _on._ )

“It’s what you brought me for, isn’t it?”

She takes the offered handle and they carry it through the opening doors.

Behind them, Walsh continues to sing.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walsh's character is grounded in an AU where he's from Our World, Modern Day. And I really liked the idea of him trying to throw in references that no one will understand - but does them poorly because his memories get fuzzy the longer he stays in Oz (i.e. poor rendition of "You Can't Always Get What You Want")


	4. Once Upon a Dream

Oz has so much to see that Emma has to stop herself from wandering down the winding paths leading out of the city to who knows where – or into what kind of danger.

She forgets to remind herself of this as she limbers towards the northern border of the city, but that’s okay because the reminder is taken care of for her.

When the scarecrow, hanging sadly in the wheat field bordering the russet paved road out of Emerald City, starts to talk to her, Emma’s first reaction isn’t to startle but to sigh and shake her head.

“No, mother, I didn’t plan on getting stuck in Oz, but thank you for your concern,” Emma says to the Scarecrow. Correction, to the crow perched on its shoulder, nodding its head along to Snow’s voice.

“Oh, you find my concern welcome now? And it didn’t occur to you to feel this way _before_ you abandoned your duties and ran off to become a pirate? Emma.”

“Mother. I know what I’m doing.”

(Lie.)

“No, you don’t.”

(Truth.)

The crow looks at her with eyes sadder than the sight of the limp and fraying scarecrow. Emma sees Snow’s understanding in the crow’s steady gaze. (Absurd, but Emma goes with it...for the moment.) Emma may be free of the Castle walls, but not of the feelings that sent her flying - quite literally - from it.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t, and it was a foolish move. A selfish one. But I felt so… _trapped_ at home.”

Trapped isn’t the wrong word for it, but telling the woman who spent years locked away in her own home that _she_ felt trapped there is wrong in the way that apologies instantly flood Emma's head and yet none seem worthy. How do you apologize for being blessed with everything – the love of a family, a stable home – and still wanting more?

If Emma ever figures that out, her mother will be the first to hear it.

“Emma, I understand how you feel, but as important as your happiness is to me, your safety comes first. Happiness second. Duty third. A very, very far third, to be absolutely clear.”

It’s strange, the tears that she has to blink away. She isn’t even close to sad. “To be absolutely clear,” Emma repeats. Her voice sounds watery even in Emmet’s manly lilt.

“I can’t get used to this,” her mother says, reading Emma’s thoughts. (Not a crow trait, she thinks, but Emma can’t be certain.)

“Don’t. It won’t be for long.”

They were back to seriousness all too quickly for Emma’s tastes

“I’m coming home. Soon. I gave myself a month to get _this_ out of my system.” She pauses and looks up into Oz’s sky. It sparkles in green, blue, and lilac hues. It’s so beautiful that she has to leave it behind, lest she become attached to its ephemerality. This freedom is not meant to last.

“A month. That’s fair. Emma, please stay safe. I don’t trust these _pirates_.”

Snow doesn’t spit the words. She glares through the eyes of the crow though, which is somehow worse.

Probably because Emma can _tell_ that’s she’s glaring. Speaking to birds, she can deal with as she has her whole life, but that handling becomes shaky when she starts _really_ learning to read them. If she’d thought sirens were the creepiest things she’d ever seen, this is the smack in her face that reminds her she has yet to even approach that milestone.

(It’s like learning to run, in a way. You have to first learn to crawl before you can even walk – and Emma’s skin hasn’t yet mastered crawling, though she’s starting to finesse it. Add that as another skill on her growing list of ‘Things You Can Only Learn through Suffering.’

Emma should add that list to the guidebook.)

A familiar pain rolls through her in reminder of where she set off to go before getting distracted. Agreeing with her mother, she says, “I don’t trust them either, but safety is relative isn’t it? There’s no guards out here, so I’ve settled for next best thing.”

“Pirates, Emma?”

“Me.”

The bird’s chest shakes with Snow’s laughter. “Emma, sweetheart, that _is_ the best thing. Which is what worries me.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Why should that worry you?”

“Because, Emma, you’re so good at being on your own that I’m afraid that’s where you’ll want to stay.”

Emma swallows around a lump in her throat. The chance to soothe her mother’s worries is stolen by the thundering of hooves and the trundling sound of carriage wheels soaring towards her.

The crow takes flight in a flap of wings, with a caw that sounds like goodbye, although Emma can’t be sure. It could’ve meant “food,” too. On their own, crows have a very limited vocabulary.

She lets the carriage pass before she jogs back into town. Unsure of where she should go, she finds herself lost in the midst of all the brightly lit shops, merchants shrilly advertising their wares, and people haggling over goods.

Emma keeps her hand on the coins at her waist, not wanting a repeat of her cutpurse experience, and bites her lip in consideration. She can’t ask anyone for help. That would be stupid. What is she going to say? “Can you point me to the nearest merchant selling feminine hygiene products?” It would be just what she needed, to have one of her crew members overhear her.

(Speak of the devil, and worse shall appear.)

A pinch at her elbow makes her jab backwards, right into what turns out to be Walsh’s side. “Good hit,” he says on a sore breath. “You looked like you needed help, and I thought I’d offer my assistance.”

Emma stares at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“I’m the Wiz, _Emmet_. I do wonderful things.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart, I suppose,” Emma replies.

Another pain clenches her stomach. Walsh smiles and reaches out a hand that he drops before it even touches her. Relief floods her as readily as the pain when he says, “Apothecary’s around this way.”

She doesn't question how he knows, nor does she want that question to be answered. Emma simply follows him, glancing over her shoulder as she goes. No familiar faces pop into view or skulk at the corners of her periphery. Still she breathes a sigh of relief when Walsh holds open the door for her to enter the shop with the darkened windows that hide its customers from prying eyes.

“Back again, eh, Professor Marvel?”

“I’ve brought along a friend in need,” _Professor Marvel_ says.

Walsh grins at her and leans in to whisper, “Well, I _am_ a marvel, aren’t I?”

Emma has no qualms about laughing at this. His pout is cute. She slips away from him before her mind can go any further than that, focusing on the task at hand.

“I need something for my sister – to ease her monthly pain and keep her on her feet while it passes.” The man behind the counter stares at her with narrowed eyes. Emma throws her head back, exasperated, and drops her shoulders. “I wish she would remember to come for these things herself, but alas, she’s sent me.”

Successfully smoothing over the man’s suspicion, Emma taps her fingers on the counter as he says, “I have what you’re looking for, and as a discount for your friendship with the Professor, I’ll have you set for next month’s as well. No extra charge.”

“I suppose you’ll be taking that charge from me then?” Walsh asks, joining her at the counter.

The man had begun to search the shelves behind him, but Walsh’s words lift his head and brings his gaze back to them. Quite seriously, he replies, “Of course,” and then went back to preparing Emma’s supplies.

Walsh turns his frown upon Emma, who winks at him and says, “I’ll owe you one.”

“You know, pirates _always_ say that when they’re about to try and take me for all I’m worth.”

“And princesses?”

Walsh winks back. “All I’m worth and then some.”

Emma nods her head. Slapping him on the arm, she says, “Good thing I’m neither then. And I don’t try. I do.”

“Oh really? Well, that already puts you ahead of a Skywalker.”

Before she can ask him what a ‘Skywalker’ is, the apothecary returns with a bundle. Emma settles the payment quickly and, together, she and Walsh exit the shop.

(And really, she would’ve paid the extra charge except the grimace on the Wonderful Wizard of Oz’s face stays her hand and keeps her purse jingling.)

“We can part here,” Emma says, glancing around her when they’ve walked a block away, this time not in search of crew members, but trying to remember the way she came.

It’s made easy by the colored stones on the ground and Killian’s words as she left him to his treasure. “Follow the yellow brick road, Emmet, and it shall lead you back to the ship. Follow the purple bricked one down to the pub. And whatever you do, avoid the beige bricked one. Nothing good can come from that, and nothing bad worthy of losing your life over.”

“Yes, we can. But first, I need that bottle back.”

Emma freezes. “What bottle?”

“The pink one. The one that you grabbed, having no idea what it is, but wanting it anyway.”

( _Oops._ )

“You caught me,” Emma says.

Brilliant ideas make everything seem brighter, even the smile Walsh gives her as he holds out his hand for her to return the stolen bottle.

Too bad for him. Emma isn’t returning anything – at least not until she knows exactly what it is.

She sighs, not too dramatically, but with enough oomph to be convincing, she hopes. “I was curious. Can you blame me? Sheltered princess that I’ve been all my life, my curiosity got the better of me, but as you said, it called out to me. I was helpless to resist…” She leans forward, biting her lip in deep thought. Visibly mulling it over, she adds in a quest for information disguised as dawning realization, “Which I suppose is the point, right?”

Walsh falls for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

(Emma would make a great fisherman.)

“Right. I call it Love Potion #9.” He laughs like he’s heard a superb joke. Walsh seems to do that a lot. “It deepens desire. _Any_ desire. Whether romantic or monetary, it makes whatever you want most irresistible.”

Emma frowns. “Who would want that?”

“Someone in need of a push forward to get them going after what they want.”

Emma nods. “Well, I’d love to give it back to you, but it’s already in the Captain's hands.”

(Lie. Lie. Lie. She _doesn’t_ want to give it back; it could come in handy, and besides, she isn’t reaching into her shirt where he can see. She does have _some_ modesty left.)

"Killian's hands? How did he swipe it off you?" He narrows his eyes. "Or was it a gift?"

"It’s all about keeping the Captain happy! Speaking of, I need to get back to the ship and I still have a few things to buy and I'd like to do all that before the shift change."

"Is this goodbye then?"

He looks saddened by the prospect. Emma admits she's a bit saddened too. It was nice to have someone to converse with without worrying what she might let slip.

"I suppose it is."

He doesn't step in to hug her nor does he try to kiss her hand. Already, this is one of her favorite goodbyes.

(Although she can't say she'd be too upset if he did. She _does_ like him.)

At first, the shimmering seems to be a trick of the light. And then, all at once, he starts to fade into his own ball of light.

Walsh really does like his theatrics.

His goodbye comes in a loud whoosh of words, carried on a wind that only tickles at Emma's ears.

"Well, I wish you luck on your journey, Emma. And tell your Captain to enjoy Love Potion #9."

She won't, of course, but she does appreciate the luck he sends her way, up until she realizes that he didn't wish her _good_ luck.

(Wonderful.)

\--

The pub might be the cleanest she's ever seen. And Emma has seen a few in her day - not nearly as many as the merry bunch of vagabonds (a phrase she happily borrows from her guidebook's description of Robin Hood and his men), but enough to know that this is the outlier.

She doesn't dare think this means luck is now on her side.

(Don't hold your breath, Emma.)

Good thing she doesn't because she isn't even able to order a drink - or get to that corner table she's eyeing before a hand slams on her shoulder.

She's going to slam him into a wall.

“I see you’ve gotten yourself a new look, Emmet. Thank God – or gods? That’s what you people worship here, right? Well, that’s beside the point, isn’t it? The point being that the sight of that bird stain was making me gag.”

Emma doesn’t laugh. Not at their drunken physician because that would only encourage him. The ‘Great’ Doctor Victor Frankenstein isn’t so great when he’s had more than a flask of rum.

He always has more than a flask of rum.

The other day, drunk like he is now, he tried to convince her to become his assistant. “Young assistants have steadier hands, and Old Man Pete is getting on in age.”

“You don’t say.”

Her complete lack of interest had only seemed to encourage him to sit on the edge of Emma’s bunk and plead with eyes that were in no way puppyish, and in every way reddened by whatever soul-burning liquid he’d consumed.

“The Captain, he needs a good physician. He isn’t prone to accidents, not at all, but sometimes he’ll catch a bad cold and -”

Emma raised a hand to stop him – not from talking, but from falling over onto her. "I'd rather work the galley with Colonel Pain."

Victor had frowned. Apparently, offended on behalf of the Colonel, he said, "The name and look is deceptive. He's kinder than he looks."

"I never thought _he_ was the pain. Just his food."

Victor nearly choked to death, laughing as hard as he did while trying to drink at the same time.

"And you can do better?"

"Not at all,” Emma had assured him before kicking him out of her bunk.

She deploys the same tactic now. With a gentle push, she says, “I think Colonel Pain would appreciate your compliments as well. He seems to be sporting quite the look.”

Colonel Pain’s wearing the same outfit he always does, sans the black cap he wears to keep his long hair out of the stew. A good effort, but Emma’s still very careful about making sure to look before she eats. Others have not been so lucky.

As Emma guessed, Frankenstein _is_ too drunk to realize this fact, so he stumbles off, calling out Colonel Pain’s name. Emma feels ashamed of her own relief when she sees the Colonel’s face fall, but not enough to stop herself from gratefully settling down at the empty table.

She's exhausted and her legs hurt. Emma slumps down into her own arms' embrace, making sure not to let her head touch the table. Cleanliness is a façade easy to maintain. Her mouth is dry, her head hurts, and she's in desperate need of a drink that she doesn't have the energy to seek out.

(Hell isn't a woman, but damn if they don't live it once a month.)

"Are you alive over there?"

Emma lifts her head to stare into a pair of purple eyes. She blinks until the full face comes into her vision. The purple was a trick of the light, but the pale blue eyes do come close to it.

"You have beautiful eyes," Emma says.

At court, this would be a compliment to a neighboring diplomat's daughter. Here, it's flirting with the barmaid.

Emma sees this fact belatedly. After the young woman giggles, cheeks flushed with red, and says, "Well, you _are_ alive. And lively, too. I like you already."

Summer has a laugh reminiscent of her name, and Emma can't turn her away, not when she started all this, but an hour and two shared drinks later, Emma's discomfort has shifted sideways. From pain to the pain of prying eyes and drunken cheers when Summer scoots on to the bench beside Emma and starts to toy with Emma's necklace.

"A swan for a Swan. How sweet," Summer says.

Sweet. That's sort of how Summer tastes when she plants a kiss on Emma.

"Uh," is all Emma manages to say before fight or flight kicks in.

She isn't going to punch the woman for kissing her, so she jumps up out of her seat and says, "I apologize but I must return to my ship. I didn't realize the time and I have urgent duties to attend to. Uh, Captain’s orders."

Said Captain, standing right behind her when she trips over her feet while trying to get away from Summer’s hurt expression.

(Yep, Emma was so right not to hold her breath. She'd be suffocating right now if she had. Or dead.)

(Probably dead.)

"Captain's orders, eh?"

Emma's pleads with her eyes. Maybe she squeaks, too.

Killian looks seconds away from having a fit. _Pirates._

With a barely concealed grin he says, "Well, I'm afraid that Emmet is right, Summer. I need him back on the ship to help our first mate with the inventory. I'm sure you understand that a sailor's work will often take him away from what he truly wants."

Emma breathes a sigh of relief swallowed up by a cough when Killian adds, "But I'm sure Emmet will leave you with a proper goodbye."

His raised eyebrow is devious. And his intentions for her are obvious enough without him rolling his tongue, biting his bottom lip and pursing both lips together in a kiss.

Taken over by a furious urge to turn her own foolishness into a win against his smirking face, Emma spins on her heel and pulls Summer to her feet in one smooth motion.

"Oh," Summer says.

Eyes wide open, Emma kisses her with her all her (limited) practiced techniques. There's tongue action and Emma even sucks on her bottom lip. Emma's out of breath when she pulls back.

"It was lovely meeting you, Summer," she says to the tongue-tied (ha!) barmaid.

With a flourish that would only be made better if Emma had a hat to tip, she says, "But duty calls."

She nods her head at Killian as she passes him by. He's scratching his chin, eyes watching her carefully. How carefully, she can't say for sure because Frankenstein whoops and claps her attention away. Emma even gets a thumbs up from Colonel Pain.

Outside, Emma takes a deep breath and feels the Love Potion #9 jostle in her brassiere. The clapping hasn't quieted yet.

(Damned pirates. Damned good kiss.)

Emma claps a hand on her own back. Damned good job.

\--

This is not a damned good job, though the job does seem damned.

A sword blurs past her face and in those seconds spent hoping that she doesn't die because her parents would be so disappointed, Emma rewinds the past few days.

It started out well enough, with a kiss and Killian ignoring the fact that he'd saved _Emmet_ from a situation no pirate _should_ need saving from. And there weren't even hints of awfulness to come - no Walsh showing up to demand the stolen goods back from her or Killian, the spoils of his sold potion doled out to her and the crew, and she'd even managed two baths before they'd set sail back towards the Doors - which, speaking of, Emma noted down in the margins of her guidebook's Oz entry, were hard coming but easy going. They were merely doors on the Oz side, no stomach churning tornadoes needed.

(Emma's already churning stomach appreciated that.)

That appreciation didn't last long when instead of sailing by the Dust Kingdom again, the Captain announced his next venture: pulling off a heist on a Dust Merchant's caravan.

Not a Merchant's ship. At least _that_ would make sense. But a caravan.

"Didn't know we were land pirates - which, doesn't that just make us thieves?"

"Not thieves, Geoff. A sailor is still a sailor on land or sea. A pirate is still a pirate wherever he goes. This –”

He thrust out his hand and Emma wasn't close enough to see it, but she knew that he'd waved his branded 'P' before the sailors face.  "This is proof of that. In fact, this is the very reason we're going to land."

"Revenge?" another sailor, Lukas offered.

"Nay. I would not call vengeance over such a trifle, especially when it was my carelessness that earned it - a carelessness I shall correct. I've got in my hands the itinerary of a caravan laden with gold and silks worth risking another run in with the Dust Sheriffs. I shall require a group of you to accompany me in this heist. The rest of you will stay behind to man the ship."

He pauses.

A grin like the Cheshire illustration in her guidebook's dedication to the dangers of Wonderland spreads across his face.

"Volunteers?"

Emma had not volunteered and yet here she is, fighting for her life against people she'd shared some very happy times with.

Her decision had been made for her by Smee of all the low rodents. First mate's first mate, he even had the nerve to call her that when he'd volunteered her for what should've been his role.

"It's best I remain here, Captain. Who knows what the men'll do without you, Captain? And who better to protect your life than the person who's done so before, Captain?"

(Lowdown dirty rat.)

To be fair to Smee and to Killian's credit, the plan had gone off without a hitch.

And so had the horses meant to carry their loot. It was no one's fault, but it had given the surprised Dust merchants the chance to gather their wits and their swords and start swinging with the strength of trained combatants. These are no glancing blows. It's a miracle no one had been killed yet, and Emma's arms feel leaden even with the adrenaline pumping energy through her veins.

A miracle.

Emma isn't going to rely on that.

She twists, knocks back the swing that would've taken her arm off, and kicks out as hard as possible. The merchant falls back head over tail. No killing needed.

"Preserve life," her mother had told her, hand curved protectively around the yellow buttercup Emma's chubby fingers would've plucked and crushed.

"Defend," her father had shown her with his arm on his practice shield and her mother's arrow lodged in the wood.

"Oh hell," Emma says, eyes on Killian as he raises his sword to the merchant's throat.

Her sweat wet hand nearly drops the bottle before she can aim it, but it flies perfectly and when the dust settles Killian and three of the men are knocked out, as well as two merchants and a sand dragon of all things, caught probably just trying to get back home to its cave somewhere at the edge of the (what can barely be called) woods.

There is still the matter of the two other merchants and the last crew member left standing by her side now, cursing her whole "bloody existence," her "bloody house," and her "bloody cow."

(Colorful.)

With two skilled swordsmen before her and a passed out pile of bodies behind, Emma sighs and hits back, forcing her companion to drop his sword. Emma drops her as well.

In the words of the unhappy man behind her, they're fucked by a mutinous little runt with bad hair.

(Rude.)

In Emma's words, spoken in the broken and poorly pronounced Saurotaran language, "These pirates are with the House of Misthaven. Training me, Princess Emma, for combat."

Her words are traditional dissolution of hostility in the Dust Kingdom, but Emma looks nothing like _Emma_. She prays this works to no one in particular, a general prayer shouted out to anyone listening.

Someone must be listening because the Saurotar Merchant drops his sword to his side and salutes her.

"You've trained well."

Emma laughs, just a little bit hysterical. It comes with the whole piracy, fighting for your life territory. So does the rush.

She feels on top of the world.

She needs to sit down.

Slumping beside her companion, she says, "All is well.”

"All is well?"

"You need to learn to talk things out. Diplomacy is the key to success in delicate situations such as these."

She can feel the dumb stare directed at her, but she doesn't care that he can't understand. All she cares is that she's alive and the Saurotar Merchant is offering her payment for meeting his blade blow for blow. Emma even promises the entire silk trade between their House and House Misthaven, and in turn, they return the flighty horses to their wagon.

All in all, it's a job well done until it comes to gathering her fallen crew.

Well, she didn’t quite think this through, but her heat of the moment, reflex reaction has saved their lives (again, again, and again - this is a terrible pattern) so even the prospect of having to return them to the ship doesn't seem so daunting.

Emma touches Killian’s cheek and trails her fingers lower, over the soft skin of his neck, down to where his pulse point is thrumming, still pulsing with life.

He doesn’t awaken when she pokes him gently. Nor does he move when she lifts his head, cradling it so as to not break his neck when she pushes him into a sitting position.

"Lift his arms, Emmet. I got his legs," Hawke says. Saving his life (again) has put him back on good terms with Emma. She isn't going to let him forget the cow thing even still.

Together they heave Killian into the wagon meant to hold their loot - now, not so freely gifted to them, but no one needs to know that but her - and her parents when they learn she's promised their silk imports to House Cypher. Which they'll learn soon enough. There are no crows circling the dry patch of gnarled trees, but the vultures will do.

Ugly things. They're probably disappointed Emma didn't end up their dinner. In fact, they look like close cousins to those damn sirens.

The rest of the crew goes the same way as Killian and with the horses bolted and rebolted to the wagon, Emma is good to go... right to sleep beside her captain while Hawke navigates the wagon back to where their ship awaits.

\--

She awakens to two men lifting her out of the wagon. Wobbly as she is, she halts them with a startled yelp and says, "I can walk on my own, thanks."

She gives an extra thanks to Hawke who's waving jauntily from the front of the wagon.

(Curse him and his whole damn ranch.)

All her muscles are on fire, but she makes it to Smee without collapsing.

"I quit," she says.

"You can't quit."

"True, but next time, you're on land heist duty, buddy."

His hands fly to his hips and his glare is piercing. "And _you're_ giving me orders?"

"I'm the first mate's first mate aren't I? Plus, I'm 3-0 everything that's come up against me. Do you really want to fight me on this?"

When diplomacy doesn't work, always try a little intimidation. Gets the job done in a pinch.

Emma's going to add that to the guidebook, right after she manages all the beautiful details of Smee's frightened look.

She hums to herself, thinking of all the stuff she needs to put in that book, building upon the adventures there, weaving a tale of her own. Her bunk, however, is farther away than she wishes, too far for her to even make it there before Victor catches her by the arm and hauls her back up the stairs.

“The Captain’s going to want to speak with you when he wakes up.”

Emma raises both eyebrows. “Why?”

He blinks at her slowly. Sober as he seems to be at the moment, she can’t blame the slow, dumb look he gives her on the spirits.

 _Right_. Stupid question.

“I’m not going to be the one to explain to him why he’s waking up in his cabin. That fate falls upon you. Congratulations!”

He smirks and holds out a hand for her to shake.

Emma doesn’t. If she grips his hand, the doctor’s going to need a doctor of his own.

(Victor _is_ right. Young assistants _do_ have steadier hands – steady enough to keep them from wringing his neck.)

“So what do you expect me to do? Wait outside his cabin until he awakens?”

That is exactly what he expects her to do – and Emma figures since she’s already going to have some explaining to do, what’s a little more?

In other words, Emma steps into the Captain’s quarters. They’re much different than she expects – _much_ different.

It looks like the cabin of a royal ship and Killian keeps it as neat as one. In this room, she can’t separate the Jolly Roger from her father’s own Rose Red.

Killian lies on the single bed, half turned on his side with his shirt rucked up on his waist as if a forgetful doctor had examined him and forgotten to pull it back down.

Emma hesitates.

This is far more skin than she’s ever seen him willingly show – besides the deep V of all of his shirts. How he doesn’t sweat in that big coat he wears, Emma doesn’t understand. Just her two layered shirts make her feel like she’s suffocating.

She bites her lip. Half of her wants to just leave him like that because the risk of him waking up as she’s pulling it down is high. Not because he’s supposed to wake up soon, according to the notes in her guidebook, but because that’s the kind of luck she has. And of course, with that same luck, she’ll be able to talk her way out of it, but…

He looks peaceful. Handsome even with his mouth half open in an unwilling hibernation. Emma takes a step towards him and another. When she reaches out to pull his shirt down, her fingers accidentally meet his bare skin.

There’s a scar there. She didn’t see it because she’d been focusing on his face, but she feels the raised skin. It’s a thin line like the stab of a knife.

Running her fingers over it, she frowns into his deceptively angelic visage. Frankenstein said he wasn’t prone to injury. Why these words niggle at her might have something to do with the fact that her hands are still on him.

She must be tired because the realization doesn’t make her move but slide her hand lower. Which, ironically, wakes her up when her fingers meet the ridge of a muscle and hair and –

(Her brain shorts out.)

Emma doesn’t run away, but his shirt still ends up half rucked up the way Victor left him when she retreats to the desk chair on the opposite of the room.

She twists to face the cleared desk and lays her head down on the table, but even with her last reserves running low, it takes her a while before her heart slows enough for her to sleep.

A sleep that feels all too soon interrupted by the shout of her Captain.

“Emmet, what have you done?”

Smee had shouted the very same question at Hawke, she remembers this in a haze that she isn’t sure wasn’t actually a dream. It doesn’t feel like one.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, answer me. What happened?”

(Sleeping Beauty? She feels more like Sleeping Dirty.)

Her face burns hot with memory – muscle, hair…Emma is all too awake. Slowly, she turns about in the chair to face him. Killian’s shirt is pulled down over his side although he’s still lying down. Emma thanks the gods for small favors.

“I stopped the Dust Merchants from killing us? And managed to still get us some of the loot?”

(Focus on the positives. Bypass the negatives.)

“Before that Emmet.”

(Negatives _not_ bypassed.)

“I knocked you out with poppy dust I borrowed from the Wizard. I figured killing wasn’t the answer to our situation and would only, well, end in death.”

Killian stretches out on the bed, and yawns out, “You’d do anything to prevent that then? Including knocking out your Captain?”

Emma smiles thinly. The chair beneath her and her uncomfortable sleeping position makes her back and neck ache something awful, and yet, she can’t bring herself to stand up when Killian’s still stretched out on his back, staring at her with squinted eyes.

She squints as well. The sun has set and someone lit the lamps in his room. They flicker and make her tired vision hard to maintain.

“It wasn't her fault that you pulled a very poor heist and she had to defend herself. She shouldn't be punished for your mistakes,” she replies.

His expression widens into curiosity. He sits up on his elbows on the bed, ponders his lap and murmurs, “ _Her,_ ” as if it’s surprising that a whole species of people would have more than one gender. When he returns his gaze to Emma, he’s biting his bottom lip, strangely reminiscent of the way he did in the tavern when he’d ‘saved’ her from the barmaid’s affections.

Perhaps she’s seeing what she wants to see. Perhaps Emma is the one that was knocked out by that poppy dust, and this is merely a dream of a dust clouded mind.

In any case, he isn’t biting his lip now. In fact his mouth is half-open in the start of a question.

(And that’s what truly matters, not just what Emma tells herself to quiet the definitely poppy-stunned voice in her head.)

"My mistakes, Emmet? What would _you_ have done differently?"

He sounds ticked off.

(Don’t take the detour over the Troll Bridge. Don’t scream at the grunting ogre.

And definitely don’t get smart with the Captain.)

"Knocked them out with stolen poppy _beforehand_ ,” she says with a _long_ roll of her eyes. For the effect, of course.

Killian braces himself on the bed and then hops to his feet, all too gracefully for someone who’d flopped to the ground like a fish only an hour or so ago.

“You have a way with words,” Killian comments.

Now, this sounds like the start of something dangerous.

“I suppose,” she agrees suspiciously, watching him approach her with the air of a cat cornering a mouse.

“Strange, then, that a simple conversation with a pretty lass could leave you so flustered.”

Of course this would come back to bite her in the ass. Killian even looks shark-like in this light.

“Wouldn’t you like to know how I talked my way out of us getting killed, Captain?”

It’s a poor effort at distraction. Killian ignores it completely.

“Emmet, do you remember when I suggested that you teach the crew some manners?”

It wasn’t so long ago. Not long enough for her to forget, memorable enough for her to definitely remember.

“No.”

Killian grins. “Well, it seems to me that there’s a thing or two we can teach you.”

“I’m not a good student.”

Another weak attempt at escape, and Killian’s a shark moving in for the kill. Emma closes her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’ll blame her failure on the battle, the lack of sleep, the hunger, and everything in between.

Tonight, however, she ends up penning the ‘Things You Can Only Learn from Suffering’ into her guidebook.

#1: Don’t tease the Captain.

#2: _Wooing._


	5. Flipping Your Fins You Don't Get Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would be nothing without [@savioursanchor](http://savioursanchor.tumblr.com) who gave me the idea for it! And of course, thank you for all the comments and kudos, I'm deeply appreciate them.

Wooing. The word tastes like hell on her tongue, which could also be the spiced broth she'd gulped down only an hour ago. It wasn't just spiced, it was doused in enough firepower to burn a hole in a rival ship. The Jolly Roger doesn’t need cannons when they have the Colonel’s cooking.

Yes, it’s a comparable taste, the fire burning in her mouth and her earlier meal, but _wooing_ is just that bit more severe, enough to make Emma's head throb with the thought of it. No soup could cause a migraine like the one she has, little feet dancing the traditional Neverland stomp on her head.

(Not that she knows what that feels like; Neverland is for lost boys and her disguise may fool them, but from what her guidebook says of Pan, it would be more likely to get her a one way ride second star to the right and a straight on to a swan dive off a cliff.)

Considering the Gods at play so far, Emma’s surprised this one hasn’t shown herself before now. Nemesis' vengeance comes in many forms, and Emma has experienced it once or twice – burning her hand after stealing lemon cakes from the kitchen, the chocolate fondue that ended up in her hair instead of her mouth, and that one memorable time Liz, her last childhood friend, actually stood up to Emma and left her hand in a glass of water the night after Emma brought her to the “scary woods.”

Still, Emma never expected this form: to be standing on the recently swabbed deck of the Jolly Roger while the sun beats down (not nearly hard enough) on Captain Killian Jones' jacket divested form.

(This isn’t vengeance; this is revenge.)

"We’ll start with dancing, an act that is merely swordplay without a blade," he says with a casual wave of his hand.

Killian takes a step towards her. Instinct makes her take a step back and exasperation turns his face an interesting shade of red. She can't help instinct and hers is screaming "danger, danger, danger" loud enough for him to hear if he listens carefully.

Or if he steps into her and she accidentally (instinctively) shoves her knee up between them, forcing him back just enough inches for her to say, "If so, you don’t have to trouble yourself with teaching me.”

He's still rubbing where Emma kneed him when she closes her mouth. She'd apologize, but she's a pirate now and pirates don't do that. Wouldn't make them very good pillagers and thieves if they went about issuing apologies to every one of their victims.

"As sharp as your words may be, I've only ever seen you _wear_ that sword at your hip, so forgive me for doubting your competence with it, Emmet. Do you need a tutorial in that as well?"

(Pause. Breathe. Keep it in your pants.)

Completely ignoring herself, she rests her hand on her sword. Slowly, she pulls it out. It makes a satisfying slicing sound as it leaves the scabbard. The whoosh is musical when she draws a lazy 'E' in the air between them – stylized, of course; if she's going to put work into learning the wrist motions necessary to do it, it isn't going to be some simple lettering.

"How about I show _you_ how to use it?"

His lips purse together in consideration. After a beat where Emma’s body hums with nervous tension, she finds herself glad she ignored her own warnings because his smirk is practically ecstatic. There is something to be said for being able to put that look on your captain's face when you draw your blade on him.

Something Emma refuses to say even in her head.

"Are you challenging me, Emmet? I must admit you are braver than even I gave you credit for." His hand is on the waistband of his pants, hips jutting out obscenely.

Grinning, with her eyelashes fluttering all the while, she says, "Think of it as an invitation to a dance." With her free hand she evens out the wrinkle in her vest to cover her unintended blush.

He winks at her and, with a flourish, unsheathes his own sword. Killian steps forward. Emma, in turn, raises her sword in the defensive. Their blades kiss, a smacking of metal against metal.

(Metaphor aside; Emma doesn't have time to blush right now.)

They move around each other, testing the weight of their blades, the other's defenses - he holds himself to the left, but Emma senses it’s a feint.

She isn't so clever with her body. She shows her moves before she makes them – if she plans them, that is, but that she's here...

(Laugh it up, ladies and gentleman. Emma is not and will never be a planner.)

When he steps forward she moves on instinct and does the same, pushing him back.

"You're toying with me," she says when all he does is laugh in response to the stumble.

"We're dancing, Emmet, remember? There's a method to the art. You have to take your time."

She refuses to think it – but her mind is a stubborn as she is. _Foreplay_ , it supplies helpfully. Killian eyes her carefully, and Emma breathes harder than the energy she's exerted.

"Not necessarily," she says. "There are many dances that don't require such thoughtful work."

And she stabs at him, not expecting him to fail in meeting her blade. Surprise, surprise, he doesn't.

Surprise, surprise, he pushes back and Emma slides her sword down his, the scrape grating to her ears, the sparks flying.

She seems to blink awake when they separate, realizing that they now have a crowd. Killian notices too and his wiggled brow says she was the only one oblivious to their growing number.

“An eager audience is only fitting for the show we’re putting on, don’t you think?”

No, she doesn’t think. Emma is too busy trying to avoid his next blow _and_ push him towards one of the cheering men to think. It’s instinct, reflex, thoughtless motion and it works.

He knocks over three crew members lingering too close to the mast, but remains standing despite that. His expression is mask-like when he faces her again.

Emma stiffens, but resists any nervous shifting on the balls of her feet when the space between them closes with each quiet step.

“That’s some fancy footwork you have, lad. Have any of your other partners told you that you’re a challenge on the dance floor?”

His eyes say he likes a challenge. His mouth would, too, probably. Killian’s definitely the type to _love_ a challenge. In his ear to ear grin, Emma sees in him that same determined madness that has her shooting back a sharp reply.

“None of my other partners have lived to see the end of the night.”

He scoffs, but curiosity belies the disbelief. “Is that so?”

(Yes, it is so. It is actually, frighteningly accurately _so_.)

The first boy she ever danced with stepped on her foot so hard that Emma pushed him into a table. It was pure accident, but the next time she did it was not. That Marquis’ hand had strayed much too far for her liking and the corset of her dress was unbearably tight – she needed an escape, and fast. It was all she could do to not take down another couple with her carelessly aimed elbow to his chest.

Her other partners had gone much the same way, either by accident, intentional bodily harm, or simply Emma disappearing on them midway through the evening.

She sees them all now, a line of flip-flopping men, falling over themselves one by one until Killian is the only one left standing.

Standing right before her and preparing to rain a blow down on her head.

Emma dives out of the way, swings her blade around to press him away from her otherwise defenseless side.

After that it’s a blur of their weapons, their bodies _dancing_ around each other – her desperation to win giving way to sharp slices and wide swoops, his drive pushing her backwards over and over again until she’s nearly forced alongside a recently (smartly) vacated barrel and the mizzenmast.

She has to stop to keep from tripping over the ropes, heels digging into the floorboards, sword holding his just far enough away from her to keep her from being backed into that corner.

Stopping forces her mind to a full stop as well. Suddenly it isn’t blood she hears pumping away, blocking up her thoughts, but her own voice, strangely reciting a page from the _Tales of an Adventurer_ that’s coincidentally titled “Tips of An Adventurer.” Her inner voice starts to read down the page but can’t seem to get past number one:

            Don’t antagonize the enemy.

And it’s like – no, she doesn’t think that Killian’s the enemy, even with her sword up, scraping his. Even though he’s glowering down at her, with the fury of a berserker and the smile of an assassin in the night (she imagines).

No, not the enemy – not until she decided...no, flippantly _cursed_ her own sense of self-preservation and tugged him into this mess of sparks and sweat and goddammit, something _more_ in the upward twist of his sword and the downward thrust of hers.

She’d antagonized because it felt safe to do so, like the castle parapets were shining brightly in the midday sun and she was kicking up packed dirt into the eyes of Kirk or Raleigh or any number of men “willing” to face her in combat.

( _Willing_ being the operative word. Who wants to accidentally injure the princess in real combat? No one. Well, except dear old dad.)

However, _this_ midday sun shines down on Killian’s head, gold peeking through the tangle of dark hair. The men around her whistle and hoot words that no guardsman would ever dare say in front of her. This isn’t fighting guards on the training field at court or even corralling a drunken Grumpy home from the nearest tavern.

Her eyes flash wide. Killian perks up when he notices and backs away. Emma’s short-nailed fingers touch the lip of the large wooden barrel behind her. Mostly empty, it wobbles in her unsteady grip. So does her sword. Her palms are sweaty and her body trembles, and it’s all because of the realization burning like acid inside her.

This isn’t _home._

This is a pirate ship and she's a pirate and this is her captain and – she drops her sword just for a second. With a swing that would take her head off had he not stopped its arc, Killian’s sword ends up at her throat, the tip resting precariously on the Adam's apple she doesn't possess.

It stings just a little. When he pulls back, she touches her hand to her neck, looking down at her fingertips to see a splotch of blood.

The bright red looks like bitter reality.

She blinks at the sight. Her throat burns and her head is pounding. Her heart might have missed a couple of beats with how slow it’s going. Each thump-thump sounds farther away than the last.

“…And that, Emmet, is why _I_ am the Captain.”

She doesn’t know what she missed, but she nods her head anyway. Moving feels like a drag, but his hand is tugging her sword out of its grip so she follows the motion.

Emma looks at him and her overheated head goes cold at the dip in his brow and stumped turn of his lips. It looks like confusion. It feels like another rapidly approaching realization.

She chokes, suddenly, on fear.

( _This isn’t home._ )

“Emmet, I thank you for indulging me in this endeavor. It was a thrilling experience, to say the least. A _jolly_ good dance,” he says.

He leans in and Emma wants to run, but where would she go? Her throat feels so tight and he isn’t helping, _oh god_ , he isn’t helping, not with his thumb brushing the cut and his voice ringing in her ears, “I apologize for that. Victor will make sure it doesn’t get infected.” He chuckles. “Even though I put my dirty pirate fingers all over it. I’m a helpful bloke, aren’t I?”

(Helpful.)

Emma nods.

Finally, he lets her go and, with the speed of her racing thoughts, Emma pushes away from the questions and congratulatory slaps of her fellow crew members and down to her bunk.

No one follows, even though their voices do, especially the ones shouting ways she could have performed better. Not even the doctor follows her down, which is spectacular. Really. She doesn’t need Victor anyway. It’s just a scratch, and even though it feels worse, the feeling isn’t in her throat but in her chest, where she touches her bloodied hand to.

It hurts there, right there.

Right where she carries her heart.

Emma makes another hasty move. She doesn’t bother to think it through as she digs under her ratty pillow and pulls out her guidebook. Her hand is shaky while she tugs the book open, flipping the pages with the rough touch they do not deserve, but which she can’t help, not when it’s a race between the words spilling from her pen and tears pouring out her eyes.

She finds the page and scribbles in all capital letters. Lifting her head she sits back and peers at her work. Her bloody thumbprint is smeared beside her words. Fitting, like her own royal seal.

“Always keep home on your mind because straying too far might mean your life.”

It’s a good addition to the tips, and an appropriate response to number twenty-six.

“Home is where the heart is. Literally. Avoid the Queen of Hearts.”

Emma’s heartbeat finally finds its normal rate, but the ache remains like stolen breaths she will never get back. She clutches the book in her hands and turns to a story more comforting than her own.

She does not fall asleep reading, but when night comes, the book is still open on the same page, the Little Mermaid’s tale.

Smee never called for her. Strange. Neither did the doctor, and when the other men of the day crew joined her in the bunks, their words were for her swordfight, not for her lack of work.

It worries her, and she isn’t sure why. The nervous energy doesn’t seem to want to fade so she crawls quietly out of her bed, leaving the book behind in its not-hiding spot (none of the crew members are interested in adventurer’s tales when they can tell far bawdier stories of their own that don’t require deciphering sometimes barely legible text.)

The night is in full swing when she ascends to the main deck and men hustle and bustle about. She’s surprised when she finds Smee isn’t around delegating the Captain’s orders as usual, but that is before she sees Killian on the deck, coat returned to his form and hair whipping in the breeze.

It isn’t a good idea to approach him, not with the way she’s feeling. Emma’s had it with ignoring her own warnings so she turns away from him and finds a quiet, empty spot where she can lean over the railing and stare down into the murky sea.

There is something about the sea that she just _loves_. The tangy smell of salt and seaweed. The rocking of the waves. She even loves the tossing and turning of a ship in a sea storm, and the way the water will swell in waves large enough to swallow a ship down. The way a dense fog will fall and surround a ship in shades of grey that roll over the water, and the only blue to be seen is fleeting glimpses in the darkness.

It’s calming, just to stare down at the water and think of the sea back home.

“You’re on the day crew tomorrow, Emmet. You should be resting. I expect my men to be in tiptop shape.”

Killian is already at her elbow, but Emma has no way of separating them without alerting him to her surprise, her discomfort, and the whirlpool of her thoughts.

“I will get enough sleep,” she promises.

Meeting his eyes would be tempting the fates. She leaves them disappointed by continuing to stare across the water.

“Aren’t you going to ask where we’re going next?”

Emma blinks. “I assumed we were going wherever you led.”

“Clever answer.”

A scratching noise turns her head. She finds him stroking his chin and looking out on the water as well. There are a column of wrinkles around his eyes that she’s never noticed before and the pointed tips of his ears are reddened by the brisk wind.

He watches her out of the corner of his eyes. “Are you not curious? You seemed so curious before.”

(Before what? Today? When I gave up mid-fight because I was scared out of my mind of my own lack of forethought?)

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she mutters, turning back to the water.

“Satisfaction, and I’m sure, a plate of cookies and some warm milk brought it back.”

He chuckles at his own answer, followed by a light sigh only moments later. Emma wouldn’t like to think that it’s because of her non-responsiveness. She would rather not think at all.

“We’re going to stop at a small port off the coast of a small island kingdom for a couple of days.”

Emma squints her eyes in disbelief. Really, he must be joking. It’s too good to be true.

“That sounds nice, but very unlike you. Have you grown bored of danger, Captain? No sea serpents for me to battle this time? No whirlpools with teeth to nearly crash the ship into? No deliveries through, I don’t know, _the Underworld_ to make?”

His laugh is brighter this time. Emma even manages a smile as well.

“All valid suggestions that I shall mark down for further thought, but no, not this time. A man must enjoy his spoils, Emmet, before he risks his life going after more.”

 _Emmet._  The name makes her chest ache again. And Killian, his response sounded distant. She steals another glance at him. This time, his sight is not on her, but set on some spot farther out to sea. Emma doesn't know what to say so she says nothing, looking out in the same direction as him.

A Night Pelican breaks her vision, talking indistinctly before it dives towards the dark water. It emerges, just at the edge of the ship, and gives her the _look_.

Emma doesn't dare meet those moon pale eyes. She looks back at Killian to find his eyes are on her, his body shifted to face her. The toes of his boots brush hers.

“Emma.”

She ignores the bird, looks down at her dirty boots where the color has turned from a shining black to an almost dull brown.

“Emma.”

Still ignoring it.

Killian clears his throat and moves towards the pelican. “This bird is…”

“Emma, listen to me. This is important.”

Emma sighs and shifts around to face the bird.

“Yes, mom?”

“I wish I could’ve waited until you were alone, but your father and I have been searching out stories about this pirate –” She spits the word and it sounds like a loud hoot “– and his crew and it’s imperative that you separate from them as soon as possible. It isn’t safe, Emma.”

“And it was safe before? I’ve survived the danger just fine so far.”

Her hand starts to move towards her throat. She folds it within her vest instead.

“Emma, please listen to me.”

Stubbornness takes hold of her. Where melancholy twisted in her heart, defensiveness now whisks it away.

“I can’t right now because I look out of my mind talking to a damn bird and my Captain is gaping at me. So, good night, mother.”

“Emma!”

Emma ignores her and this time it works. With a more bird-like cry, it takes flight in a flap of angry wings. With her mother gone, she pushes aside the self-flagellation for a moment to worry about more pressing matters. Namely the gaping captain.

"Never met a bird whisperer before,” he says with his face twisted in an expression somewhere between ‘what the fuck’ and ‘what the fucking fuck.’

(There are _so_ many colorful phrases you can pick up in a tavern or from your semi-adoptive uncle’s mouth – while in a tavern of course. Grumpy keeps it civil at home.)

His mouth falls open again. Emma breathes in through her nose, breathes out a quick response, "I can teach you if you want, but you'll have to pay the price."

It’s nice that he’s so easy, in a way. Killian is easy to distract.

(Too easy.)

Killian leans in, as he does far too often for her sanity. So close she could – not do anything because he’s just too damn close. "What price is that?" he asks. She can feel his breath on her face.

She coughs and her laugh is raspier than she intends. Stepping back so she can raise her hand to the pelican’s path, she says, "Seabirds. They're not very bright. You'll have to endure their inane chatter."

“You are a man of many surprises, Emmet,” Killian says. “I feel like you were sent to me as a reminder.”

With a curious tilt of her head – never mind that curiosity killed the cat – she asks, “A reminder of what?”

His eyes trail across her face. Emma could describe the tingle of her skin or the way her head begins to spin again, but it would not be enough to cover how his eyes _feel_ on her when he replies, “Of good times.”

A confession, that’s what it sounds like. But of what, Emma has no freaking clue. She is just happy to know that it isn’t a princess she reminds him of. At this point, she doesn’t know how she even could. She’s so firmly Emmet that Emma feels far away, only to be found in a bird’s hoots and the voices in her mind.

 _And_ in this brand new ache in her heart.

“Isn’t a pirate’s life all good times?”

He laughs. “What fairytales have you been reading in that book of yours?”

Emma shakes her head nervously, while he continues speaking.

“Smee told me of it and Victor attempted to sneak a peek but was too drunk to read past the tale of Beauty and the Beast. Is that where you read of the Dust Kingdom? I can’t see any fairytales centered in that dry land, but well, the most fantastical ideas make the best stories, I suppose.”

He slips into a more somber tone when he says, “A pirate’s life is one of always being on the run. Sometimes it’s pleasurable, and other times not so much. It is a life filled with wonder and danger.”

Emma hears her mother saying “I told you so” and she almost looks around to see if the pelican returned.

“Why did you want to be a pirate, Emmet? You have the sword skills of a knight, the intelligence of a scholar, and a face to trick duchesses out of their fortunes. What are you running from?”

His compliments and question hit too close to home. In her chest, but just above her heart, an arrow just missing its mark.

“Maybe I’m not running.”

Killian blinks and looks at her from under raised eyebrows.

“Pirates chase just as much as they run. Maybe I’m just chasing the same thing you are.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, mouth curling into a smile.

Emma laughs, temptation catching her. She reaches her hand out and pats him on the shoulder. “When I figure that out I’ll let you know.”

He takes it far differently than she means it. His smile grows wider, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. Somehow it makes him look younger, open, and her mind reasons that this is the first time they’ve been truly alone together while her heart begins to pound to a new rhythm.

“So you have plans to figure me out?”

Scrambling to save herself from where her thoughts might lead, she says, “Unless you want to tell me and save me the trouble?”

“You _are_ trouble, Emmet. I wouldn’t be saving you anything if I let spill all my secrets.”

This is easy. She can do this.

“So you admit that you _do_ have secrets.”

His hand pulls her back in as she attempts to step away. Emma can’t do this. This isn’t easy at all.

She wonders if he can feel the hairs stand on her arm. Does he think it’s the cold? Is it the cold?

(It isn’t the cold, but she shivers all the same.)

“I admit nothing except one.”

Emma senses the tonal shift. Instinct makes her twist in his grip, and she suspects she won’t fault herself later for letting it rule her now, even though all it does is make him tighten his grasp on her arm. It doesn’t hurt but it traps her.

(A fish on a hook.)

“I know you let me win our match today, and I suspect the reason that you did so was fear of the consequences of your actions.”

Fear. He knows very little of her fear, but he sure as hell can feel it.

“But I may be wrong, of course. Doesn’t happen often, but even I am fallible. Either way, that’s your secret to keep.”

He draws her into him with the hand on her arm. They stand toe to toe, eye to eye. Her heart is pounding, her head is swimming, and she has nowhere to run, not with his hand on her, his eyes gleaming in the light and his _hand on her arm_ , so warm despite the breeze, softer than it should be given his Pirate Captainship.

She could knee him as she did earlier, but instinct seems to have taken a backseat to staring into the danger in his eyes. It looks a lot like the blue of the sea.

His eyes trace her lips. The deck is so unbearably silent that she can hear his quiet response, cannon loud in her ears.

“But don’t keep your secrets too close, or I just might steal them all away.”

“Sleep,” Emma blurts. Steadying herself, she says, “I need sleep, as you said. To be in tiptop shape.”

Killian nods. “Yes, you’ve had a long day. And so have I.”

He lets her go and waves his hand dismissively. “Smee will see you up bright and early tomorrow. Enjoy your dreams, Emmet.”

“And you too,” she says, not instinct, but ingrained manners guiding her response even as she stumbles over her own thoughts in her haste to make it back the way she came.

Her bunk is cold when she lays herself down in it. Underneath the thin sheet, her body quakes. She isn’t cold. Emma goes to sleep with hellfire burning on her skin, right where he held her to him. In her tired mind, she thinks that this whole situation could be worse.

He could be wooing her.


	6. Legs are required for jumping, dancing

It’s easy for her to put her confusing feelings aside when it comes time to actually make their way to this “small island kingdom.” Storms have a way of putting everything in perspective, and tossing silly things like _wooing_ aside.

Yes, it could be worse. Much worse than the feelings swimming in her gut and the headache of her mother’s words said from a bird’s mouth and not the one that presses cool lips to her forehead when she’s sick or tells her stories to distract her when the wind blows so loud, she’s sure the castle walls will fall in.

(Experience, of course, proving that worry true. The West Wing still hasn’t recovered.)

Worse than that, even.

This storm has hands. Hands lifting the water around them, shaking it in angry fists and throwing it back at them as hard as it can. Hard enough to punch the air out Emma’s lungs and replace it with the sting of salt.

She’s stopped trying to clean the water out of her eyes, instead focusing on staying steady enough to help keep their ship afloat. No feelings necessary here, except for the one in her aching jaw, where a sailor’s thrusting elbow met her face. She doesn’t even care for yelling about that. There are too many voices yelling around her for him to even hear her complain anyway.

Besides, it isn’t important. What is important is that Zeus is striking lightning down around them, and the hot slice in the air is growing closer to them with each clap of Thor’s hammer on the earth. Somewhere below Poseidon answers with a shake that would destroy lesser ships.

Emma could learn a thing about tempting fate from this because it could be worse.

_Of course it could._

-

What Emma learns instead is that the Gods have tempers that run hot _and_ fast. The storm is over long before Emma even hits her stride in the prevent-Smee-from-falling/tug-that-rope-harder feat. In fact, only a day has passed by the time the dark clouds clear enough for them to see the sun waking, hints of light in the sky.

She wants to be grateful for its end, and especially wants to be grateful that there’s “Land, ahoy!” but mostly she’s just upset at the salt in her eyes and the knots of her hair.

Her blue bandana is gone for good, but with the way her hair is growing, she’s going to need another one – and a comb. She definitely needs a comb. She lost her other one to a bet against Hawke, who had very little hair to speak of but one unlucky dice roll later, attempted to comb his hair with it regardless.

What a horse’s –

“Emmet! Help me go check on the lower decks.”

Emma follows and in a repeat of their trip to Oz, they’ve reached shore by the time her and Smee calculate that they’ll need to replace half the food and their fresh water stores, with everything else salvageable.

She half expects Smee to continue this repeat and tell her that Killian will need her. The thought makes her heart take off at a run. She’d forgotten for a moment.

Well, distractions aren’t meant to last forever.

“Am I free to go to shore now?” Emma asks, begging, begging, and _begging_ for him to say ‘Yes.’

_Just_ ‘Yes.’

“Yes. However, you should head out with someone who knows the area already. You’ve never been here before and you’re young.”

(Young and an idiot, apparently.)

“I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer. Maybe next time I’ll let you escort me. You could _even_ hold my hand.”

Smee blusters, and it’s so worth it to see his face turn as bright as his soaked hat.

Emma skips up the stairs, back to her bunk, which is thankfully dry. She’d made sure to wrap her book up tight before she’d gone to the upper deck to help. It’s her one possession that she truly cared to protect. Besides her necklace, but that she still wears safe around her neck.

Her money is already resting uncomfortably beneath her clothes. She wavers on whether to take the book with her or not, but then decides that it’s safer on her person. Placed in her satchel, buried under her change of clothes, Emma prepares to follow the crew off the ship.

Victor is the first person she sees on the deck. For once, he looks sober and so unhappily so, Emma actually risks crossing to his side.

“Too much sea water and not enough rum?” Emma asks cheekily.

Victor gives her a side-eyed look. “Not enough rum. Or women to make the rum unnecessary. I hate this island.”

“Because it doesn’t have enough women? Or rum? Or both?” Emma asks – but more asking herself why she even bothered with this lech.

“Because it’s always surrounded by storms. I don’t like lightning,” he says. Now he really sounds sober, and painfully so.

Sobriety makes him mournful. On his pale face, he looks almost like a ghost.

“Yeah, you could use a bit more sun,” Emma says. “And a bit more rum.”

Killian’s voice rises over the din and it’s a fight between her body and her mind from looking up to find the source.

(Distractions aren’t meant to last. But you can always find new ones.)

“And I could use someone to show me around,” she adds.

Victor pokes at her side. “So it’s an alliance you propose?”

Rubbing at the spot he touched, she grimaces. “A temporary one.”

“You know, Emmet, sometimes I get the feeling you don’t like me.”

Emma smiles, small enough that it looks like she’s keeping a secret. She hums to herself, and threads her arm with his. It feels awkward but Victor doesn’t seem to mind at all, and if it means that he’s blocking her view of where Killian’s shouting orders to the crew members who have to stay behind, then it’s an awkwardness she shall (gratefully) endure.

-

It grows more comfortable as they walk along the dirt packed streets. Here, there are sidewalks of cobbled grey stones. The buildings are tall and wide, built of stone instead of wood. A smart choice when they have storms like the one Emma and Victor were forced through.

Which, Victor begins to explain, is a feature of this island solely because of its inhabitants.

One, in particular.

“Who could warrant such anger from the Gods?” Emma asks curiously, as Victor leads her to a tavern that supposedly has free baths for weary travelers.

Victor laughs, whipping up their joined arms in humored excitement. It helps that he recognizes his own strength, or else Emma might’ve had to wrench her arm back into place – and his head from his neck.

“It isn’t anger. Anger would make sense. No, it’s _celebration_. Pride or what have you.”

“Pride?”

“If you can reach this island, then you deserve to be here – at least that’s what she says her father told her when he set up the storm barrier.”

Emma doesn’t dare think but her bag suddenly grows heavier in her arms.

“Her father?”

“You can ask her yourself when we reach the tavern. She’s a good storyteller.”

“…With, let me guess, a beautiful voice?”

Victor looks as proud as that storm was awful. “Good guess, Emmet.”

She rolls her eyes, but allows him to keep holding her arm all the way up to the fenced in tavern of painted stone. That’s where she disentangles them and breathes out her nervousness because yeah, she’s met Circe and seen Oz and disguised herself like Mulan, but still there’s a difference between stealing bits and pieces from a story and stepping right into one.

_If_ she’s stepping right into one and not letting her heart race for no good reason.

(There are lots of good reasons for it to race. Reasons she’s trying to tell herself are bad.)

Following the path through the gate, up the stone steps, and inside the building is as good as a new distraction as any. It’s quiet and rather empty, but there are tables neatly placed like it’s used to far more company and the owner stands stiffly waiting to attend to them.

“You must be more of _his_ crew.”

The owner says this in a heavy accent that speaks of far, far off lands. Lands that Emma would rather not visit if the people are as unfriendly as him – she can be a bit standoffish, but keeping her distance from people is just a product of being distant from people.

If you’re going to own a place that people frequent however, it seems a little idiotic to be so…

“I _am_ right, aren’t I?”

He says this like he’s always right. The look on his face is only confirmation. He holds his nose high like some of the more annoying tutors Emma’s had.

“Oh come on, Sebastian, you know me. Stop pretending you don’t.”

“Would you rather I acknowledge that I banned you from coming back here again?”

This shuts Victor up, but Sebastian still looks annoyed so Emma applies diplomacy.

(Always a smart choice.)

“I apologize for my companion, as I’m sure he feels much...” Victor huffs. Emma is going to strangle him. Eventually. “…regret over what happened, and we, _I_ , would truly appreciate a bath. I’ll even pay.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes at her. His sigh comes with exaggerated motion, but quiet. Contained. “The bath is free, as I’m sure _he_ told you. But drinks are not, and you will pay for any damages.”

This last part he directs at Victor. Emma isn’t going to need to strangle him because one step out of line and Sebastian will probably do it for her.

Victor and Emma split up. Apparently, a bath isn’t as imperative to him as drinking his sobriety away.

“The women will come later. As will you know who.”

Emma feels that tingle of excitement again.

“But I don’t.”

Victor waves her away. Drink in his hand, Emma knows she’s lost him.

Up the stairs that probably were gleaming before “ _his_ crew” left their muddy steps behind, she follows Sebastian, who already has a bath waiting in one of the many empty rooms.

Sebastian visibly brightens, a happy smile _gleaming_ on his face.  Before he closes the door behind him, he says, “Be sure to join us downstairs at noon for our daily show.”

“Show?” Emma asks, but the door is shut and her question goes unanswered again.

Unless, as she suspects, she already knows the answer like she _knew_ the back of her hand. Before it changed from Emma’s to Emmet’s.

At least, Emmet’s hands still feel as soft as Emma’s. Even with the light scars on her knuckles from the impromptu haircut, even with the rope burn on her palms. They feel like a princess’. She isn’t as much Emmet as she should be. Neither is she Emma.

_Emma_ has never been so grateful for a bath in her life. Tearing her clothes off, desperation taking over as the smell of lemon-scented soap hits her nose, Emma takes one cautious step into the bath and then another, hastier one when it passes her heat test.

The bath is hot enough to burn away all the layers of dirt and salt and dirt beneath the salt. Hot enough to burn away the sudden knot in her chest, as tight as the one in her hair. She dips her head under the water, eyes closed. Submerged, she drags her fingers through her hair until they can actually run through without pulling out chunks.

The lemon scented soap bar joins her under the water, scrubbing everywhere she can reach but especially her hair. She lifts up out of the water and twists out the water in it.

Emma hears her mother in her thoughts when she lets her hair go for it to fall nowhere. It rests behind her ears and a little against the back of her neck. The tangles in it are gone, but her heart feels just as knotted as it did before.

She misses her hair.

Her face is wet, but she doesn’t realize that she’s crying until she lifts the towel from the little table beside the bath and dries her face only for it to wet again.

Emma doesn’t cry often so the shock ends up stopping the tears, not any sudden realization or her coming to terms with the confusion of her situation. No, it’s the tears that stop the tears.

(It sounds stupid said aloud, even if it’s just in her own head.)

She needs another distraction, so she dresses into her clothes and sets herself down to at least rinsing out her sea-soaked outfit. She isn’t going to attempt to use the bar of soap on it. Smelling nice is great, but walking around in stiff clothes isn’t.

Although, she might as well buy a new outfit while she’s here. Unlike the rest of the crew, she doesn’t plan to spend all her gold on drink and other lusty occupations so she can afford to splurge on a necessity.

Unlike them, she finds clothing a necessity.

Well, not _all_ of them.

For one, her Captain finds clothing necessary, even more so than she does, especially when the sun is hot and she’s stripped down to just one shirt while he’s still in his leather jacket. Although, when she makes it back down the even dirtier stairs of the tavern, cleaned clothes still hanging in the room for her to get later, she sees that he has shirked his jacket and the long sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up to reveal pale arms of hard, recently cleaned muscle.

He has a tattoo. Emma spends a long time staring out the corner of her eye and trying to make it out before she sits down at a corner table on the opposite side of the room and stares instead at the painting on the wall.

A mermaid with long red hair and a tail of dazzling green stares back at her, using a fork to comb her hair. Emma understands that – when push comes to shove, you’ll use whatever’s on hand.

“That’s Ariel. And, no, she doesn’t sing here.” Sebastian says, crossing the room to her.

“I didn’t,” Emma starts but he dips his head and cuts her off. “Every man always does.”

‘I’m not a man’ is the first response that comes to mind and might’ve been the first words that left her mouth if Killian’s laugh hadn’t brought her sense of self-preservation roaring back to life.

“I was admiring her use of the fork,” Emma explains. “It’s very practical. I wish I’d thought of that before I pulled out half my head trying to wash it.”

Sebastian makes a harrumphing noise. “Practical? That girl!”

His smile is pure adoration when he says, “Mermaids!” and steps out of view.

The source of Killian’s laughter is a woman. Not that Emma was looking for the source, but Sebastian had been standing directly before Killian’s table so when he moves, Emma can’t help but see Killian lean, bared elbows on the table, into the dark-skinned woman with the pretty smile and long, clipped-back hair. It’s just as long as Emma’s was.

She reaches up to touch hers, but lets her hand fall instead.

From here, she can see his tattoo.

She’s never seen a phoenix with black wings before, but there it is, emblazoned on his skin surrounded by a fire burning across a pale green sea.

It’s beautiful, but sad. And if Emma – _Emmet’s_ supposed to be some kind of reminder of good times, then this must be a reminder of the bad ones. Reborn from the ashes, but into what? And from what ashes?

She blinks away the questions that she wants to ask, knowing that she can never ask them. Having one secret is enough. Sharing his would be too much.

Besides, she doesn’t want to share in his secrets. Or in anything else.

Dragging her eyes away from him, she steps around the table and heads over to where Victor is drinking at the bar.

“How’s the drink? It must taste better than you smell,” Emma comments, leaning away from him as the scent wafts into her nostrils.

Victor smirks. “Oh, it does. Care to share one with me?”

Another laugh echoes through the room, this time girlish and bright. Emma gives him a thin smile.

“Yeah, I will.”

Emma drinks her ale in a silence only broken by the arrival of more people opening doors and buying drinks, and their loud laughter full of amusement Emma does not feel.

Every time he laughs, she thinks of his touch. Every time she laughs, Emma wants to slap herself for replaying the memory.

It isn’t until her mug is empty that she heads back over to her table. The room is so full that she’s surprised that anyone hasn’t snagged the seat yet.

A trill of a song starts the moment Emma’s butt hits the seat, and Emma realizes she can’t see where the voice is coming from. Blocked off by several men, all she can do is listen as the woman begins to sing.

It’s a common enough sea shanty, but this one is sung with the power of the sea behind it and Emma is caught in her seat, unable to even stand to see.

She knows this song.

(There’s a difference between stealing bits and pieces from a story and stepping right into one, and it’s the sound of a former mermaid painting pictures of her home beneath the sea with only her voice.)

Emma knows her name. She knows her story, and now, she knows her voice and with every second she realizes that she’d known nothing at all. Not really.

She’d read of pirates and adventure, but never known the smell of a galley after hauling in fish or the smell of a pirate after a storm. She’d never known a siren’s song until she’d been forced to endure it.

She’d read of gods and goddesses, called on them from time to time, but never known what it would be like for them to actually listen – and try to turn her crew into dinner.

And Emma had read of freedom, but had never known the pain of it until a sword sliced across her throat and she found herself searching for secrets in the blue eyes of a pirate.

Here, with Ursula’s song easing the rest of the tavern into silence, Emma has never felt more troubled.

The song ends, and everyone claps and cheers, but Emma slinks farther into her corner, satchel clutched to her chest, just waiting for the moment when she can escape and find another distraction, a better one.

“Beautiful,” gets thrown around a lot in the moments that pass. “Enchanting,” and “Bewitching,” and once, “Bloody marvelous, lass. As always.”

Once, or maybe more, but Emma closes her ears after that and focuses on scratching of her fingers in her palm. She even closes her eyes to make it easier.

But nothing is ever easy anymore. Especially not this.

“Would you share a song with me?”

Emma startles, eyes opening wide to see the woman that Killian had shared smiles and laughs with – and bared elbows, pale, black winged phoenix flying to places unknown –

Ursula’s voice is beautiful, even speaking.

“I don’t sing,” she says. She hears the uptick in her own voice, the question spinning out despite herself. _Why would you even ask me_?

Another question rests exactly where it shouldn’t, on the tip of her tongue, ready to fall off. _Did you see me watching you_?

Followed by another, the question that makes her want to crawl out of her own skin to get away from the gaze that must surely be locked on her, even in this darkened corner. Surely.

_Did_ he _see me watching you_?

Ursula’s cheeriness is a stark contrast to how Emma feels when Ursula takes her hand, pulls Emma’s helpless form up from her seat, and says, “You don’t need to sing. A dance is all I require. Killian says you’re a talented dancer.”

“He did?” Her voice rises. (Dammit.) Emma’s face goes hot.

“He couldn’t _stop_ complimenting your graces, which is not unusual for him.” Ursula’s laugh makes one bubble out of Emma in turn. Nervous. Frightened. Amazed. She leans into Ursula’s embrace when she crooks a finger for Emma to come closer. “Killian can never resist the charms of a beautiful woman. Especially ones that can literally knock him off his feet.”

(Cat out of the bag. Ogre out of the well. Emma out of her goddamn mind to think this could ever work.)

The loud voices dim around her. All she can see is Killian with his sword pressed to her throat – and feel his hand tight on her arm. She should’ve escaped when she had the chance.

“I don’t even want to ask how you knew. This is becoming painfully unfunny.”

Emma touches her empty hand to the scar on her throat. It doesn’t hurt, but – Ursula’s smile drops and takes both Emma’s hands in hers. “Magic calls to magic. That’s all this is. Please, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s a little hard when everyone and their mother can see through your disguise,” Emma whispers (Circe could be somebody’s mother, right?) “Are you going to be the one to tell him? I’m too far away to get home from here on my own. I –”

_\- miss home._

The sentence lodges in her chest in the same place that ached only a day before. It makes her think of the time she’s spent and the time she has left. Two weeks on this journey already, and two weeks to go before she…?

Would she even be _near_ Misthaven at that time?

“No, I’m not going to tell him, but if we don’t start our dance soon as I told him we would, he’ll think something’s wrong between _us_ , which might be worse than him finding out. For both of us.”

Emma eyes her. It isn’t like she doesn’t believe Ursula because her face is so open and honest that of course she would see through Emma’s lie, and she _is_ _the Little Mermaid_ , daughter of Poseidon, proud enough of her voice to try and destroy any that might be worthy enough to hear it.

And Emma has read Ursula’s tale and can’t imagine her revealing her secret, but maybe Emma’s luck will finally run out this time and she’ll end up tossed out on her ass, or worse tossed overboard for her deception. She can swim just fine, but she wouldn’t count it as a strength or something she’s particularly interested in doing.

(The sirens, remember, Emma? Remember?)

Saving Killian aside, Emma has zero interest in that dive.

It is fear that makes her agree. “Alright, but who’s leading?”

Ursula snorts. “You, of course.”

Not thinking at all because she’s done that enough, Emma places her hand on Ursula’s waist and the other hand in hers and says, “I don’t know the melody to dance to.”

“You dance. I’ll make the melody.”

It’s not a waltz, but something easier. Friendlier. A dance she and her father might have done when she was younger, jumping up onto his toes and letting him walk her across the room instead of learning the dance.

It feels like home and when Ursula begins to sing, she hears her mother’s voice. She starts the song as a whistle and carries it through each one of Emma’s steps out of their darkened corner, to the center of the room. She reads Emma’s movements and adjusts the tune to them until Emma is adjusting it to her words instead.

They glide across the floor, hand in hand, and Emma lets the tavern and its faces and _everything_ fade away to be replaced with a smaller room, emptier and yet too full for Emma to care about anything except watching her mother and father dance.

_And as you sweep the room_  
_imagine that the broom is someone that you love  
and soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune_  

There are tears prickling anew at the back of her eyes and she can’t keep up the pace, not any longer. Ursula seems to sense that, and Emma is so grateful when she ends the song, on a sweeter whistle than the one she started with.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Ursula asks before Emma even has a chance to breathe.

She looks up into Ursula’s brown eyes – and feels an adventure staring back at her. One that she’s never found in her books or even at home.

In Ursula’s eyes, and in the dimples of her smile, she sees a friend.

“Please,” Emma replies.

She runs back to her corner table and snatches up her satchel. When she stands, Ursula is there, offering a kind hand to hold onto. Cheers carry them across the floor and out the open doors of the tavern. Emma feels weightless on her feet as they practically dance out the door, and there is no gaze to pull her down this time, although it must surely be there. Surely.

-

They walk a good way away from her tavern and each step, Emma struggles to find words to say. Ursula hums a light melody but it’s so strange to Emma’s ears. She still feels weightless, but the kind where she’s sure she’ll fall sooner rather than later.

What can she say? What do you say to the woman you’ve spent years reading about?

“How are you still so young?”

(Apparently that.)

“I’m a mermaid. Did you not know?”

What do you say to the woman you’ve spent years reading about? Nothing, actually. Instead, Emma stops and starts digging in her satchel. She retrieves her guidebook. Swiftly (easily) she turns to the start of the Little Mermaid and begins to read.

“He was on the top deck of his ship when he first heard Ursula’s voice, calling out to him across the sea.”

Emma doesn’t finish even the first paragraph before Ursula snatches the book from her hands, fingers tracing over each word, flipping through the pages with an increasingly awed expression.

“Where did you get this?” she asks, clutching the book tight.

“It was – It _is_ a question I still don’t know the answer to.”

Which is a truth she hasn’t thought about in years. It was a gift, maybe? Or at least she found it in a pile of gifts waiting to be opened. The book was already open on a tale “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” If she thinks hard enough, sometimes she can see the words, freshly inked in blue pen, but she isn’t sure whether the memory is real or imagined.

“Speaking of questions, I have another one for you.”

Emma looks up at Ursula who offers the book back to her so Emma can put it in her satchel.

“What’s your name?”

A _good_ question.

“Emma.”

Ursula laughs and Emma shrugs. “I guess I’m not that creative.”

“Well, you seem creative enough to me. Disguising yourself as a man to board Killian’s ship. That’s a work of genius.”

“Foolishness. That’s what my mother would say.” Mentioning her mother makes Emma’s smile fade. She looks around, but the birds in the distance don’t come close to flying towards them. “I think I might agree.”

“At least you can admit it. Me? Well, you’ve read the story and it’s mostly the truth.”

“Mostly?”

Ursula smiles. “I don’t think that I should be the one to correct it. It isn’t just _my_ story.”

Emma feels herself on the brink of asking who else’s story it could be, so she can fix it, but stops herself. This is just weird.

Voicing that thought, she says, “This is _just_ weird. I’ve read your story so many times I can recite it to you – but you’re right here and it’s …”

Ursula nods. Squinting her eyes, she studies Emma. After a moment, she pumps her fist in the air. “I can fix this. You know my story, but I don’t know yours. So, Emma, will you tell me a story?”

She sounds like Emma, tugging at her father’s hand, not wanting to go to bed without tales of ogre slayings and dragon fighting running in her head.

(Emma was a bloodthirsty child.)

“Where should I start?”

Ursula shrugs, grinning. “Wherever you want.”

She starts off shaky, sharing her secret, fear still tugging at her chest even though they’re too far to hear and Ursula threads a trail through empty streets and over sandy alleyways empty save for birds and crustaceans.

Soon, she’s telling her about running away and meeting Killian. When she tells of their adventures, they don’t seem as bad as actually living them, and living them doesn’t seem so bad either.

It’s talking about Killian that trips her up – so she doesn’t say much at all, except to mention the times she’s had to save his life.

“I’d say I was surprised, but knowing him, nothing surprises me. I am, however, unsurprised that he mentioned none of this.”

Emma has no comment to this, which is fine because she doesn’t have to find one. Ursula carries on the conversation like they’ve known each other for years.

“So, I need to buy fabric for a dress and get it made for a performance next week.”

“A week to make a dress?”

Emma answers her own question with a roll of her eyes. “Magic. But can’t you just create the fabric with magic too?”

“It’s different, picking it out yourself. I can do plenty of things with magic, but what’s the point of leaving the sea if I’m going to rely on its power for everything I do? Is that not the same reason you disguised yourself?”

Emma nods, fingering at her still wet bracelet. “I see what you mean.”

She quiets. Killian’s words are ringing in her head again. _What are you running from_? Chipping away at her own response. Still, she has no idea how to answer that – except it sort of feels like this whole day, she’s been running away from herself.

And Emma can’t even begin to understand what that means.

“Come on, the shop is right over here,” Ursula says. She grabs Emma’s hand and tugs her along and for the tiniest moment, Emma wants to wrench her arm free.

(Discomfort. Fear. Take your pick; Emma feels them all.)

She enters the shop behind Ursula and takes a moment to find comfort in the former mermaid’s easy smile at the proprietor.

“Back again, Ursula?”

“And back again,” Ursula confirms.

“Well, take a look around and see what you find.”

Taking a look around is a bit hard when the store is just shelves upon closely fitted shelves of rungs of fabric of varying shades, colors, designs.

Emma has a headache just looking at them.

“If you were shopping for yourself, what would you purchase?” Ursula asks, earnest.

Emma trails her fingers along the velvety pink. Too hot, too dull. She walks horizontal between the closely stabled shelves of fabrics in brilliant blues, deep greens and ugly golds. Some have lacy trim, some are pre-detailed with gemmed stones.

She wouldn’t buy any of this. Not a single fabric to make a pair of pants with or a simple tunic, let alone a dress.

But – she takes in a breath – that’s being selfish, because Ursula is obviously trying to find something for herself and she’s asked Emma’s opinion and Emma wants to give it.

That fear and discomfort seize her chest again, and Emma comes to terms with the fact that it’s not because of Ursula, but because of herself. The fact is, she doesn’t know how to be friends with someone besides bawdy pirates who don’t know her real name and perhaps, Wizards with far too many sayings she doesn’t understand. And of course, her parents, which would probably sadden her more if they weren’t such good company. It doesn’t come to her easy, not the way it seems to come to Ursula. Still, that doesn’t mean she needs to accept it.

“This one,” Emma says, touching the last rung of fabric on the shelf. It’s a soft blue with flickers of pale green. In it, Emma remembers home, but not with the melancholy of the night before or during her and Ursula’s shared dance. She misses home, but she loves this moment, too, watching Ursula nod her head and lift the fabric.

She has another fabric in her hand. A pale pink cotton one. It’s a nice color, one that Emma would’ve chosen for herself.

“It reminds me of my mother,” Ursula says as her thin fingers run over the blue-green, making it shimmer all the more. She sounds like she might cry, but when she turns to Emma, she’s smiling.

Emma understands.

“Her tail was this color.”

Emma’s brows tilt. Ursula’s eyes follow the movement and she laughs, piling the two rungs of fabric together.

“Weird to say, I know.”

Shaking her head, Emma smiles too, “You can be weird with me. Besides, it’s not weird. Just…surprising.”

“I did tell you that my mom taught me how to speak to birds,” Emma adds.

It works.

Ursula bursts out laughing while she carries the pink and blue fabrics to the proprietor. She chats with him easily so Emma turns around the corner of the shelves, looking at the fabrics of bright reds and deep purples, playing with the bracelet on her wrist all the while. Even in her bath, she hadn’t taken it off. She hasn’t taken it off since it was put on. Whatever she’s running from, it feels easier when she touches that bracelet and remembers no one can see.

Well, except for _everyone and their mother_.

“Emma. Are you ready?”

The bright red fabric she’d been staring at disappears as her gaze flickers to Ursula. The rungs of fabric are almost taller than her. Emma grabs one up without even asking, and says, “Where to next?”

-

Night falls so fast that Emma calls it magic. Ursula has to laugh at that, while they sit on the floor of her room, in a little house close enough to the water that she can dive right in whenever she wishes. Or whenever her father wishes, which is often enough that she leaves the terrace window propped open and a basket for her skirts resting beside it.

It comes easy now, the friendship. They’ve shared enough: shopping for a new pirate outfit for Emma (of which she now wears the purple bandana), eating an early dinner of delicate leaves that did nothing but make them hungry for the braised chickens they passed on the way to Ursula’s home (which they ate with their fingers) ,trying crazier and uglier designs for Ursula’s dress. Emma feels free to laugh at everything and not worry about anything except trying to update Ursula’s sense of style.

(Last season’s designs on this island need to be sent to the depths of the sea.)

“Oh, come on, you really do these shows _every_ night?”

“Noon and just after sunset,” Ursula confirms. “Having the people there keeps Sebastian happy, and singing for them keeps me happy of course.”

“Sebastian likes people?”

Emma isn’t convinced. Ursula shakes her head.

“People, not pirates. He’s much like my father in that way.”

Emma nods, slowly. The story may have been written out in Emma’s book, but hearing it from Ursula’s voice had given it the weight the words couldn’t.

With a deliberate motion, Emma takes Ursula’s hand. “It’s sunset. How about we go entertain some more people? Or, rather, I watch you entertain and sit this one out. I don’t think I can handle another dance.”

Gifted with a bright smile, Emma smiles and stands up from her cross-legged position on the floor. It’s easy to pull Ursula to her feet as she does so. She’s light and much easier to lift than any one of those poppy dosed pirates her and Hawke had carried back to the Jolly.

(Smells nicer, too.)

They’re joined by others on their journey back to the tavern, so Emma doesn’t get to say what she wants. To thank Ursula for the whole day, for not revealing Emma’s secret, for saving her from her own messy head, for making her smile.

Instead, she ends up finding an empty seat in between two apparent regulars of Ursula’s shows. They chat with her while Emma watches and sips at a mug of sweet wine. She’s used to drinking it out of a glass, but she’s used to sleeping with twenty plus snorers now too so…

(There really is no point to this train of thought.)

Except to pass time, time where she can see members of her crew trying to catch her eye – Hawke, Victor, even Private Pedro who rarely says two words to her (thank goodness).

She looks down at her mug to avoid their looks and mourns her lost sleep tonight when she’ll have to endure their questions.

Where she’ll have to go back to being Emmet and explain, somehow, the day she spent at Ursula’s side. Not shopping for fabric, playing magic dress up, eating salads and reminiscing about playing tricks on childhood friends – royalty can be the same everywhere, behind castle walls and beneath the sea. It seems they all liked a good game of hide and seek the lost princess/demigoddess.

She’s tilting her empty wine glass back up to her lips when a raucous laugh has her shooting straight up in her seat. She doesn’t lift her head however, not until Ursula begins to sing.

This time she does not take Emma’s hands, her skirts whipping by themselves as she spins away across the floor, dancing with no one at all.

This is a voice those sirens wish they had. The kind to make you jump headlong into the sea and their waiting arms, happy for the release of death.

(Or at least, not so annoyed with it.)

This is the kind of voice that speaks of danger in the smile of a pretty girl. Emma smiles to herself at the thought.

_My heart is pierced by cupid._

And suddenly, she’s smiling at Killian as Ursula moves to the left in a shimmer of blue green. Sitting at the table across from her now, his eyes are on Ursula.

But only for a moment.

_I disdain all glittering gold._

Pinching herself doesn’t help. Ursula’s voice leaves her spellbound, and it’s a spell that captures Killian as well. His eyes crinkle at the edges, his cheeks rise.

A smile that makes her feel alone in this tavern. Just him and her and –

_There is nothing can console me, but my jolly sailor bold_.

She counts the heartbeats until she breathes, all the while counting the hairs that fall across his forehead, the shades of blue in his eyes, every single second she gives herself away. Ursula’s spell tears her down, past the disguises and protestations, all the way down to the woman that dreams of adventure. To the girl whose favorite story is the Little Mermaid and she’s suddenly dropped in it.

Ursula pauses for a moment. Emma takes a much needed breath and prepares to turn her eyes but…

…there’s Killian, looking at her like he doesn’t need a ship or a crew to pull off this heist: just his smile and the wink of his eyes.

_Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever ye may be,  
who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea._

(Yeah. Right.)

Emma’s heart is like pounding feet on pavement, her fingers dig at her wooden board of the seat beneath her, and _my jolly sailor bold –_ her jolly sailor bold is too far in the dark for this to be anything but friendly. Or, well, it could be more than friendly but either way, he isn’t smiling at _her_ that way and it makes her head hurt.

_My heart is pierced by Cupid_.

Cupid can shove it, frankly.

Emma tilts her head to the side. Although Ursula may still be singing to the silently awed audience, Emma no longer feels a part of it. Spell broken, Emma closes her book on the page where Ursula’s italicized editions still shine, freshly inked like a spell put to paper.

(She’s half tempted to add Ursula’s name under “Witches to Avoid.”)

Ursula spins back towards Emma. Her grin is wide and happy as her voice rises – _I disdain all glittering gold._

(There’s enough empty pages at the back for Emma to add her own: “Friends to Make.”)

_There is nothing can console me._

Emma feels the eyes on her when she stands and Ursula is too busy bewitching the rest of the audience to be looking at Emma any longer, so it can only be one gaze drawing heat to her face.

Instinct tells Emma to look. Emma reminds herself that she’s ignoring that for the time being.

(Instinct is telling her to run. Perhaps she isn’t ignoring it that much at all.)

She’s out the door before Ursula breathes out the last line. It closes quietly on her words, _but my jolly sailor bold_.

The darkness seems to deepen around her the more distance she places between herself and the tavern. Emma welcomes the shadows of the night. Here, she feels she can hide and disappear again, back into Emmet, the not-so quiet, danger prone pirate.

Emmet, who saves his Captain or falls along with him, and doesn’t fall _for_ him. Emmet thinks his Captain’s an idiot, not a man of depths and secrets worth learning

( _Unless you want to tell me and save me the trouble_ )

Emmet, who finds trouble but doesn’t seek it out. Emmet doesn’t wish for a bath or a red dress of soft silk or hair that does more than touch the back of her neck, but falls down past her shoulders, long enough to twirl her fingers in.

Emmet just wants to be a Pirate.

It’s Emma that _wishes_ , and Emma needs to shut her damn mouth.

There’s a fence separating the tavern from the streets lined with lights casting long shadows everywhere. Emma welcomes the shadows, but she steps into the light, so she can look down at her hands and try to see what everyone else sees.

She wants to see Emmet because looking at Emma is getting tiresome.

After being on the ship for so long, she knows not to let herself be lost in her thoughts, so even as she tries to lose herself in Emmet, she hears the quiet patter of footsteps behind her.

She grabs the hand reaching for her purse and frowns at its size. Small. A boy’s scraped knuckles and sweaty palm.

“What are you doing?” Emma demands. She doesn’t let his hand go as she turns to face him.

He’s stuck pressed up against the fence. Tall enough that he can stare her straight in the eye, he’s a lanky boy that can’t be much older than thirteen or fourteen. His face is too soft around the edges. His eyes dart from her to the darkness around them, as if he’s trying to figure out just how to get out of this.

Or better yet, he’s another one that can see through her disguise.

As luck would have it, it’s the former.

“Stealing from you,” he says, opting for honesty. It isn’t like he could lie, not with his fingers still reaching out to grab.

Emma likes honesty. ( _Yes_ , even though she’s been lying her way through everything these past two weeks).

She doesn’t let him go, instead asks, “Why?”

He jerks his head back. “Well, I need the money.”

This sounds sort of like a lie. Emma turns curious. “What do you need it _for_?”

“What else does someone need money for? To buy things.”

This is definitely a lie. “Buy what? Maybe I’ll be nice and buy it for you.”

The boy jerks again. Instead of pulling backwards like Emma anticipates, he pushes forward, hand snatching out at her purse and tearing it away from her waist.

Emma releases his hand, desperate to take it back, but he’s faster.

“You’re not _that_ nice. But thank you for the purse, I really do need it.”

He steps backwards from the fence as Emma slams shoulder first against it. He’s smiling but it’s a strange one, proud and _friendly_.

“I’m Henry, by the way,” the boy says, and then he’s off, the sound of his feet skipping over stones only a little louder than the sound of the coins jingling in her stolen purse.

She gives herself a moment to roll her eyes, curse the heavens, curse Fortuna (you know, the _usual_ ) and then she hops the fence and gives chase.


	7. Wandering Free, Wish I could Be, Part of that World

The chase ends where Emma least expects it (and her imagination has run wilder than Henry’s coiling path). Emma loses him for a moment and has to pick her own way to the docks where the Jolly Roger waits. Looking at the slightly swaying ship, the weariness cements her in her place. Two days is a long time to be awake, especially when you’ve spent half that time battling a storm.

So, bent over with her hands resting on her knees, breathing heavy from the short run, Emma can only watch as Henry looks around to make sure she hasn’t caught up to him before approaching the man standing guard.

The wind is blowing hard tonight, both a relief for her overstrained body and a blessing because it carries his words on it.

“I have the gold now. To buy passage on your ship.”

The man snorts and spits. Emma isn’t sure what she’s more disgusted by: him or the fact that Henry is trying to buy passage on the Jolly when she hadn’t had to do the same and from someone who’s neither Smee nor the Captain.

“Let me see the gold.”

From this distance Henry looks even younger, even with the determined tilt of his chin as he clutches her purse in his hands and says, “That’s not how it works. I want to see your captain first.”

The man sneers. Emma recognizes him now, one of the crewmen she cares so little for that she’s never even bothered to learn his name.

Her legs burn, sharp pinpricks when she moves towards them. Emma’s going to need some sleep soon or else she’s going to have to invest in a new body entirely because hers won’t last much longer like this.

“The Captain isn’t seeing anyone until he sees the gold. So, hand it over.”

“He can’t do that,” Emma says.

To the boy’s credit, he doesn’t jump, but he looks as sheepish as a lamb, turning his head slowly to face her.

_You’re not that nice_.

(How untrue.)

“First of all, it’s my gold he has in his hands and I’m not keen on sharing.” She plucks the purse out of Henry’s hands. He doesn’t even fight her, except with his eyes, big and round brown eyes that plead like a puppy’s.

Emma grabs his hand. “Second of all, he’s coming with me. So, that’ll be all, gentlemen.”

The man snorts again, but his spit is vicious as he says, “Don’t much like your games, Swan.”

She straightens her back. Henry’s fingers are wrapped around her own now and tugging just barely, not away from her grasp, but trying to pull her with him. Her body is aching and tired beyond belief, but her words are all power when she says, “And I don’t much like yours. Have a good night. Give the Captain my regards.”

Conceding to Henry’s silent request, she turns them both and walks away, not back the way they came, but treading a path through the brighter lit streets until her legs threaten to give out on her.

There’s a green bench with painted seagulls conveniently before one of the closed shops on the main street. A hatter’s shop. Emma plops down into the seat, taking Henry with her.

“So, you’re a pirate?”

“I’m Emmet Swan. Yes, I’m a pirate, and I gather you want to be one too?”

Henry wrinkles his nose at her, staring with bright eyes. At least he has some energy to spare. A yawn escapes her, and she releases his hand to cover her face.

Yawning is contagious. Henry follows her, opening his mouth as wide as he can and making a noise like an elephant’s roar.

“Tired?” Emma asks.

“Yeah.”

“Stealing someone’s purse will do that to you.”

“I’m…sorry,” he says, and actually sounds like he means it. He’s looking at his hands, not at her, a wrinkle in his forehead.

Emma frowns. “Why do you want to be a pirate, then? Does the adventure call out to you or is it something else?"

"Doesn't adventure call out to everyone?"

(Well isn’t that a familiar answer.)

"I like you, kid,” Emma announces. She closes her eyes for a moment, and reopens them to find him still staring at her with those puppy eyes, wide and curious.

And excited. His hands are tapping on the bench.

“But the piracy? You’re a little young for that, and you have your whole life ahead of you.”

Emma wishes she didn’t have to think of Killian when she says this. But those are the breaks. It’s what she gets for worrying about some kid who just stole from her. She should be angry at least, uncaring, any pirate would be, but she’s too tired to do anything but be Princess Emma.

Princess Emma cares.

(Pirate Emma cares, too, but she’s going to fix that. Soon. Hopefully.)

“You’re young, too,” Henry points an accusing finger at her.

“Why does everyone – I’m _not_ thirteen.”

“Neither am I. I’m fourteen.”

Henry’s mouth twists, not quite a full grin.

(You haven’t won yet, buddy.)

Emma waves her hand. “Still too young, and you haven’t answered me. Piracy isn’t all adventure. It’s vicious storms and tornadoes and awful creatures and fighting for your life and…”

“Sounds fun,” Henry says cheerfully. His face tells a different story. He looks away from her but she sees the uneasy frown. He stutters out an explanation. “Where I come from, if you’re an orphan, it’s either the mines or working for the trolls. And I don’t know if you’ve ever met a troll, but they’re not…you don’t want to work for them.”

“So you ran away? Here? _How_?”

“I hopped on a ship. Hid in the cargo hold, stealing food here and there. It was easy, mostly. I got caught when they came to clear out the hold here. I’d fallen asleep.”

“They left you behind.” Emma guess. “Because a ship is no place for a boy?”

Henry glares at the ground. “Because a royal vessel is no place for a dirty orphan.”

Emma’s neck snaps back. She feels awake now, looking at him frown at his knees and imagining a sailor on her father’s ship, laughing at Henry with the dirt on his neck and the sand all over his worn boots, telling him he’s not worthy of being on their ship.

She can’t imagine it, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t. Not all people are as kind as her.

(She’s not even as kind as herself. Any other day she can’t imagine herself doing something like this.)

This being, “So you figure a pirate ship wouldn’t turn you away…well, you _might_ be right.”

Henry’s head snaps up, hands slamming down on the bench between them. If Emma wasn’t awake already, she is now.

He has one of the happiest smiles Emma’s ever seen, and it sort of makes her want to fluff his hair.

(Sentiment. She always did want a brother.)

“Do you really mean that?”

Emma looks up to the sky, away from his face for a moment because his buzz of excitement is distracting her from proper thinking. She finds nothing but the burn of street lights which isn’t much of a help.

(Oh, _brother._ )

“Yeah, yeah, I think I can make it work. But you have to promise me something.”

Henry looks ready to promise her the moon. No doubt he’d find some way to steal it off someone else and get himself into more trouble.

“No more stealing. At least not until you have a proper place to flee to.”

Quite the pirate, she’s turning out to be. Her parents will be so proud.

He nods with a dizzying shake of his head. Grinning, he says, “I’ll find you tomorrow then? And you’ll help me?”

“Tomorrow at sunset. At the tavern.”

It’s a moment when she realizes that she doesn’t know its name. The tavern. That’s sure to narrow it down.

“During Ursula’s show? Cool! I like her songs.”

He slaps his hand down on the bench again and then extends the other. “Swear on it. A pirate’s oath.”

(Emma _still_ has no idea what a pirate’s oath is.)

“How about this: I swear on…” Killian’s face pops into her head, unbidden. “I swear on Captain Killian Jones that I will find a way to help you.”

“On the Captain? Cool!” Henry says and shakes her hand.

He pulls back and hops off the bench. A thousand thoughts swim through Emma’s head. Where is he sleeping? Did he eat? Will he even _sleep_?

Henry takes off before she can get a word in edgewise either way. It isn’t like she’d be able to ask him her next question, nor would he be able to answer.

Why the hell did she think that swearing on Killian’s name was a good idea?

It speaks of trouble, and she has enough of it as it is – convincing him to let Henry on the ship being the number one, for the moment (the others can take a very, very far backseat.)

She’s lost in thought or half asleep, not sure which, but one second she’s slumped on the bench, knees curled beneath her and the next, someone is tapping her on the shoulder.

“And here I thought a bunk to sleep in was a part of the whole pirate package?”

Ursula’s voice is a welcome wake up call.

“It is, I’m just…”

Ursula gazes at her with something approaching mischief. Emma’s half tempted to run, though she probably wouldn’t get far before collapsing in on herself.

“Waiting for me? Come on, I have an extra bed. My regulars may make for a good audience, but you make for good company.”

Emma blushes. Friendship is turning out to be the best decision she’s ever made.

She uses Ursula’s outstretched hand to pull herself to her feet and then they set off back to her little house at the edge of the sea. She reaches the sandy path and stops.

“Did you change your mind?” Ursula asks.

She can see the stars from here. The sea sparkles as it caresses the beach and the sand looks cool. Emma reaches down to untie her boots.

“I just want to feel the sand between my toes,” Emma says.

Touching down on the beach, she practically dances her way up the path with the energy she has left. The wind helps, blowing her up the stairs and Ursula follows, laughing at Emma’s skipping feet. Ursula reaches the door first as Emma twirls on the porch. Emma turns to look at her.

“I made an oath with a boy that robbed me that I’d help him become a pirate.”

That explains everything in a way. Or at least, Ursula seems to accept it.

“Well.” Ursula spreads out her hands. “I can’t help much with that, but I noticed earlier, when you were putting on your bandana that your hair could use some work.”

Truth can be a painful thing. Emma winces.

 “So, are we going to braid each other’s hair and tell stories?”

It’s a serious question. She used to do that all the time when her father had his long hair, before he finally cut it and stopped looking like a shepherd in the wild.

“We’re going to comb _your_ hair and maybe get one story in before you fall asleep on me. Your eyes are twitching,” Ursula corrects gently.

They’re seated on the floor of Ursula’s room in their night clothes, with Emma’s book spread out in her lap only minutes later.

Emma flips through the pages, trying to find a story good enough for the woman willing to tackle her hair when Ursula plops down beside her. Her hands are soft even though she grabs Emma’s head with an overenthusiastic tug. “This is a mess.”

She runs the comb through the very bottom of Emma’s hair first, working out the smaller knots, and working her way upwards. It’s relaxing. Emma feels at home here, with Ursula humming as she works (Emma’s surprised she isn’t whistling), only breaking the silence to tell Emma to shift this way or that. The light tune reminds of her the bluebirds that like to perch on her mother’s terrace.

It takes Emma a couple of minutes before she opens her eyes and realizes that it isn’t a reminder, but Ursula humming along the to the bluebird perched on _her_ terrace.

Emma eyes the bird carefully.

The bird eyes her.

“…Mom?”

“I see you’ve made a friend.”

Emma closes her mouth around the sigh. Ursula’s hand has stilled on her hair. “Is it your mother?” she says. She drops the top of her hand to Emma’s hair to pull her back. Emma looks up into her eyes as Ursula says, “Or are you just chatting with the locals?”

Emma crosses her arms and ducks her head again, pouting in the bluebird’s direction. It’s resting in the doorway now, pecking at its own feathers.

“Yeah, I have.”

“She’s…”

“A singer,” Emma supplies.

“A mermaid,” her mother corrects.

Emma can’t shrug with Ursula back to combing out her hair but she can roll her eyes. “The _little_ mermaid. If you want to get specific.”

The bluebird-mother-hybrid-monstrosity stays silent. The tension rises. Emma bites at her bottom lip; it’s a moment where she should apologize for the last time they spoke. She should tell her about everything – the swordfight, her conflicted feelings, how she misses home.

But that will only cut her adventure short quicker than the slice of a sword. Snow would be here in a second to carry Emma home. She’s not certain that it wouldn’t be as some kind of great eagle or possessed gryphon either; Emma would rather not take that chance.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says.

“I am too.”

Emma frowns, tilts her head. Ursula clucks her tongue, lightly smacking Emma on the head with the comb. Emma stills again.

“But why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.”

If birds could smile, this one would. Her mother laughs and the birds chest shakes and Emma is completely confused until Snow says, “I’m sorry for making you look ‘out of your mind’ in front of your Captain.”

Emma jerks back and the smack that comes is harder than before. Ursula’s laughing, and so is her mother, and Emma doesn’t bother to lift her hand to soothe the pain away. It fades with their laughter.

“It’s alright. He didn’t mind,” Emma says.

(He didn’t mind at all.)

Uncomfortable again, Emma says, “I am sorry, really. I just…had a bad day.”

“And I had news that you didn’t want to hear. I know. You can be as stubborn as your father.”

“He says the same about you,” Emma points out.

“He _is_ saying the same about me. Hold on, I…”

Her mother’s voice fades out. The bird whistles nervously and looks like it might take off until her dad’s voice comes through.

“Emma, I miss you. Come home,” he says sternly.

Her mom flickers back in. “This is why I told you not to -”

Emma breathes in and breathes out exasperation.

“Dad, I love you, I’ll be home soon. Mom, I love you, I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, Emma. To be serious, we know you like your stories, but the stories about this pirate aren’t ones we want you to be a part of. Emma, you are royalty. Do you know what he might do if he finds out?”

Her father makes a good point, and he even manages to sound kingly while he says it. Must be a skill that distance makes easier, being able to stop smiling long enough to order your daughter about.

Emma shrugs. “I’ve given it a lot of thought. Which is why you can’t keep doing this. He’ll suspect something is off.”

“So, you don't want us to contact you?”

Of course, her father sounds hurt.

“I’m asking you to keep it to the absolute minimum. Obviously, you’re keeping track of me somehow, so continue to do that, but quietly? Can you manage that?”

“I miss your voice, Emma,” her dad says. “Forgive me for wanting to hear it.”

“No forgiveness needed. I have a beautiful voice.” Emma waves a hand over her head. “Just not as beautiful as hers. Now, can I get some sleep? I’m exhausted.”

She imagines her father’s stern expression failing, a smile teased out when he says, "Just as grouchy as ever when you're tired."

Emma closes her eyes, but Ursula pushes back against her before she can fall asleep on top of her. The fingers in her hair have fallen away and her hair is tied neatly beneath the bandana.

When she opens her eyes, the bird is still watching her.

She smiles. Her father would never leave without saying goodbye.

"I'm proud of you, Emma."

Tears form at the corner of her eyes, too small to even bother wiping away.

-

Morning comes, but Emma's too fast asleep to notice. Afternoon is when she awakens to see Ursula cautiously stepping around the room.

"I'm awake now, but thank you for your consideration," Emma says, voice hoarse, head heavy from her long hibernation.

Emma crawls out of the bed that she spent far too long sleeping in and stretches until her limbs feel less like weights and more human.

"I've been considering your suggestions and I think I've found a design you'll like," Ursula says in a rush.

She bounces on her feet. Emma wonders what that would like with a tail instead. It is…interesting imagery at least.

"I swam to a couple of different kingdoms to find it," Ursula explains.

The rung of fabric is still leaning against the wall, waiting to be woven. Emma grabs the glass of water from Ursula's bedside table (friends are the _best_ ) and waves her hand for Ursula to show her.

The transformation is blinding. Magic lights are a little too bright for her so early in the day.

(Never mind that it isn't even close to early in the day.)

The dress looks fantastic and Emma isn't jealous or envious, but the feeling where you're excited for someone while wishing the same for yourself.

(There should be a word for that.

Longing will have to do.)

"Perfect," Emma says.

As Ursula turns to admire herself in the mirror, Emma shakes her head to abate the growing headache. It could be hunger, and if she was in a lying mood, she'd blame it on that.

But she made a promise. Swore a pirate's oath, and she has to stick to it - even though she has no idea _how_ to do so.

"Will you come out with me again today?"

"I have to meet the kid at sunset," Emma says with a bite of her lip.

"And this will only take an hour or so. Besides, we're headed the same way."

And she has no interest in returning to the ship as of yet. Cataloging all the questions that the drama hungry pirates (much like ladies at court, just as strong in smell and eager to pick every word apart) will likely ask, Emma would miss her sunset meeting. Dinner. Breakfast.The rest of her life.

Besides, she _isn’t_ in a lying mood, and she'd like to stay Emma a little longer.

She leaves her things behind in Ursula’s bedroom, although Ursula lets out a wistful sigh when Emma hides her book under the bed.

“I can tell Mulan’s story from memory, you know.”

Ursula grins, wistfulness gone.

It’s nice to have someone to share her stories with and not just the mysterious author who’s always felt like Emma’s closest friend, and Ursula listens intently until they get to the hat shop. With a storm rolling in and the fog thick, it looks foreboding.

Emma hesitates to enter.

“Morgana has that way on people,” Ursula says. “I’ll be just a moment, you can wait out here.”

Emma stops at the first protest when Ursula raises a hand and uses the other to open the door. With Ursula inside, Emma weighs her options.

She can sit on the bench or she can wander a bit. She can borrow Ursula’s comb forever or she can boy her own. She can beg and plead or she can try to trick Killian into letting Henry on the ship.

So many options.

Emma decides to wander, drop the subject of the comb altogether, and – well, that last one is giving her trouble.

Henry _is_ rather young, and Killian might view his joining the ship as tantamount to bad luck. There isn’t a sailor younger than Emma on the ship, most of them at least 10 or 15 years older with the exclusion of the Doctor and a handful of others, and even royal ships have a ban on children. Especially female children, so at least Henry has that in his favor.

Unlike her, he doesn’t have to pretend to be something he’s not.

She bites her lip, turns with the curving sidewalk, annoyed that she keeps retreading these same woes. _I’m not me. I’m not Emmet_.

If only telling herself to shut up would make it easier.

“Shut up,” she says aloud.

“I haven’t even said a word yet!”

Emma stops in her tracks, too fast for the rest of her body to get the memo and she ends up swaying.

“I would ask where you’ve been but I saw Ursula enter her cousin’s shop and I followed you. Have the two of you been having a good time these past two days?”

Emma shakes her head at the curl of his lips. He looks nice with the fog at his back. Nice being the closest word Emma knows to describe the way his smile turns her head.

Down and away in fact because it’s blinding in this light and she might find an escape in his shirt at least. His half open shirt, sleeves rolled up again like he’s decided to turn his own self-inflicted modesty on its head – or tan his pale arms.

The fog tightens around them.

(Good luck with that.)

“We’re the best of friends,” Emma says.

“I knew your talent would win her over, and Sebastian, too. Thanks to you, his opinion of pirates has greatly improved.”

Emma makes an “ah” noise. “Using me, Captain?”

“Just sharing the love. You can win over even the hardest of men. I figured that a crustacean would be easy work.”

She shakes away the image of Sebastian the crab, and drops her gaze. Emma can see his tattoo again, in clearer detail the painted colors, the black of the wings, darker than any night she’s ever seen. It fades into more pale skin and a vein thrumming thick as his hand clenches.

On her own arm.

He grabs her so fast, she’s unable to do more than react when he pulls her to him and steps out into the street.

“Ursula, love, you nearly took Emmet’s head off.”

Emmet’s head – _Emma’s_ head is buried in his chest. He smells clean, like lemon scented soap and a hint of some kind of cologne that, unlike most of the cologne-wearing men she’s encountered, doesn’t give her a headache on first whiff.

The way he lets her go with gentle hands, stepping back to give her space to turn, does Emma’s head in better than any cologne could.

“Emmet,” Ursula stutters. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Over the packages,” Emma says quickly. “Here, let me help.”

She’s quick to grab two of the large hat boxes out of her hands, so she can hide her burning face behind them.

"Are you okay?" Killian asks. He reaches over to lift one of the boxes, like he's going to help and Emma is so ready to drop the boxes and run.

(Deep breath. Just breathe.)

She keeps her hands tight on the boxes.

"I'm fine. And I have this, Captain. Don’t you have a ship to run?”

“Are you trying to give the orders now, are we?”

“Just…” she stumbles over a way to finish that sentence.

Ursula finds the way for her. “Making sure the Captain is prepared to set sail before the next storm rolls in.”

“Oh, I see how this is. The both of you are conspiring against me. Well, Ursula, Emmet won’t be at your side much longer and then who will he have to defend him?”

“You.”

“We should go,” Emma cuts in. She has no wish to go to an early grave over this conversation and her heart is already making threats to give out.

“As you wish, mate, don’t want to hold you up any longer while you only have until the morning to spend with my dearest Ursula.” Killian says. “And _I_ ’ve a ship to run.”

He steps away from them with a salute, boots clacking on the sidewalk as he disappears into the fog.

“Well, I expected more questions,” Ursula says. “He had quite a few to ask me when I was at the tavern earlier today.”

Curiosity killed the cat.

“What questions?”

“He wanted to know what we’ve been up to. If you told me of your journeys so far. But I think he really wanted to know about your journeys before, hoping that as a man you’d want to admit your secrets to me. They all seem to.”

“You don’t need to be a man to desire that,” Emma says.

Curiosity _most definitely_ killed the cat. And Emma is no cat, but she might as well be.

( _But don’t keep your secrets too close, or I just might steal them all away._ )

At least she can comfort herself with the fact that he makes for a poor thief. Henry will fit right in – if he gets in.

“I am inviting, aren’t I?”

“Eh, a bit,” Emma concedes.

“You didn’t finish telling me about Mulan,” Ursula points out.

They wind their way back to her house, Ursula leading because Emma can’t quite see, especially as distracted with her storytelling as she is.

The sky keeps getting darker. By the time they’ve placed the hat boxes on the floor of Ursula’s bedroom, the wind has torn away the fog and sunset is already on the horizon.

“Should we head down to the tavern or…? I told him sunset and you have your performance.”

Ursula waves her hand, tearing through the boxes. “I have something for you first.”

Emma stops reaching for her bag underneath the bed. Curiously, and yes, she knows, it kills, she looks at Ursula.

“Is it a hat?”

“Better.”

The magic light is blinding even so late in the night. White spots dance across her vision, but she still recognizes the red, and even blinded, Emma knows a dress when she sees it.

“You shouldn’t,” Emma says. “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

Ursula rolls her eyes to the sea. "Killian isn't around. You don't have to pretend you don't want it."

"Why would he matter?”

She’d love to have an actual answer to that. Really. And for her stomach to stop trying to answer it with the flutter of butterfly wings.

"Well, you are pretending to be a man.”

"Oh, right,” Emma says.

What a good answer. (It doesn’t satisfy her at all.)

Ursula kneels down beside Emma on the floor, letting the dress fall across both their laps. “Don’t tell me no. This is my best work yet.”

And it is her best work, plus she’s pouting so Emma really wants to say yes but…

“Where would I even put it?”

“I’ve thought of that. I borrowed this from my father’s vault.”

She holds out a little purse, barely big enough to hold a handful of coins.

Emma hazards an educated guess, “Magic bag that can hold objects much bigger than itself?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s in the book. Under ‘Helpful Artifacts and Where to Find Them.’ Though it didn’t mention being able to find one in this realm. The one pictured is much larger, too.”

Emma takes the offered purse, rolling the little blue bag around in her hands. What would she even do with the dress is the question she _should_ ask herself. Instead, she wonders how best to fold it so it doesn’t wrinkle too much, and where to hide the bag itself.

Emma is practical in her impracticalities.

“You’re not going to say no, are you?” Ursula says, bouncing on her knees. Emma shakes her head. “Good, because I was going to hide it in your bag anyway.”

Ursula stills her movements, and with a quieter voice says, “It’ll be a parting gift you can remember me by.”

Emma doesn’t mean to laugh, really, but – “I don’t need a gift for that, _Little Mermaid_.”

Ursula falls out laughing, too.

-

Parting is such sweet sorrow, or so the saying goes.

The saying is wrong.

Parting is terror laced whispers of “What the hell am I supposed to do about the kid?” and returned whispers of “You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

Henry has taken the back corner booth for himself, used to being in the shadows. She barely notices him until he pokes his head out and frantically waves her over.

“I saw the Captain.”

Emma whips her head to where he’s pointing, at Killian playing a game of dice against three of the other patrons.

“How did _you_ know he was the Captain?” Emma asks.

“Well, he said it when _that_ lady over there tried to buy him a drink.” Henry puffs up his chest and smirks, attempting a deeper voice, but he still kind of squeaks when he says, “Sorry, lass, but as the Captain, I must keep a steady head tonight. I sail at dawn, and as beautiful as you are, you’ll make me lose that head.”

Emma bites her lip to still a laugh. She glances back at Killian who laughs into the “beautiful” blonde woman with the low cut blouse.

_You’ll think of something_.

Emma’s thought of something.

“Stay here,” Emma says.

She doesn’t know what happens in the space between her leaving Henry’s side and leaning over Killian’s table, but he’s staring at her – as is the blonde – so, Emma puts it down as one of those little things that happens when you’re trying to help a kid thief become a pirate.

“I wanna play,” she says to Killian. “But against only you.”

His mouth half opens and he licks at his bottom lip thoughtfully.

(Sinfully. Hopefully the gods won’t strike him down.)

“Me only? I’m touched, Emmet.”

He emphasizes this by touching his hand to his heart. His gaze shifts, and Emma follows it to the blonde beside him, whose bright smile has soured into something that makes Emma’s nails scrape at the table.

“I’m all apologies tonight, lass, but I must accede to this request. It’s the least I can do for a valued member of my crew.”

She sniffs. “The least you could do? Good night, Captain.”

Killian sighs as the woman hurries away, stiff backed. Emma feels soured by the woman’s gait, yet Killian doesn’t look brokenhearted over it, his smile focused on Emma. The other men stand and move to other tables until it’s just Emma and Killian.

This dice game is the worst idea she's ever had.

(Not counting the million others.)

It's all chance. Mostly. Loaded dice are a problem she's run into a few times, playing against Happy of all people.

“So what are we playing?”

Emma takes the vacated seat across from him.

“A simple gamble. Choose a pair of numbers, and see whose comes up first.”

“Simple.”

He leans forward in his seat, elbows pressing to the table.

“But what are we playing _for_?”

Killian's eyes keep flickering across her face. She tries not to get caught in their path as she chuckles and says, "How about favors?"

"What favor would you ask of me, then, on the off-chance that you win?"

Emma gets caught. His gaze is on her lips.

_This is stupid_ , she tells herself. It helps, somewhat.

"It’s a surprise," she says. Just _somewhat_ breathy.

"For me or you?"

Emma hums. "What favor would you ask of me? No, we must have terms. It can't be anything the other would reasonably say no to."

What an awful choice of words. All those years of reading gone to waste. She keeps setting herself up for this.

‘This’ being _this_ : Killian’s quiet question of "And what would you say no to?"

"Quite a few things, actually, though I'll let you know on the off chance you win."

Good. She keeps her voice even this time, professional. She sounds almost as unaffected as she should feel. If life was any kinder. Her life has been pretty kind from the get go. Perhaps, it’s just the world trying to keep itself in balance.

And Emma completely off balance every time he so much as looks at her..

"Well, I already have an idea in mind, so I suppose we might as well roll before Ursula’s performance distracts us, eh?"

Emma doesn't even hazard a guess what idea he might have in mind. She's (absolutely) positive she doesn't want to know.

So, she'll just have to win.

Over Killian's shoulder, Emma sees Henry. Apparently “Stay here,” means something different than she thought. When he notices her looking he gives her the double thumbed symbol of good luck.

_Good_ , she thinks while watching Killian roll up his sleeves. She's going to need it.

"Shall I get first throw?" he offers.

"If you insist," she says.

Nervous tension makes her eager for this (terrible) idea to be done with. That tension only grows when he lifts the colored dice and says, "Place your bet."

"5 and 3.”

A familiar bet.

He nods. "And for me, 2 and 6."

She thinks he’s going to roll and end the tightened feeling in her chest. Henry keeps glancing at her, now joined by Ursula, a sweet cake in his hand and hers.

Instead, Killian leans across the table, holding out the dice to her.

Confused, she says, "I thought you were rolling."

"I am, Emmet. But give me a blow for good luck."

Emma laughs nervously and sits back in her chair, away from his hand. His fist closes around the dice and he looks disappointed, shaking his head.

"I suppose you want to keep that luck to yourself. Logical."

It isn't logic that made her sit back in her chair, but a reverse leap of faith - if she doesn't tempt fate, perhaps it'll stop tempting her.

The dice rattle in his hand before he lets them fall across the table. The roll goes smoothly, both die landing on two clear numbers: Three and Four.

A draw.

"Your throw, Emmet."

They both reach for the dice at the same time, and his knuckles bump hers. She looks up at him but he's looking at her hand.

The hand attached to the wrist that wears Circe's bracelet. The one he shouldn't be able to see. Like he shouldn't be able to see her. It sure seems like he's trying to, though.

She makes the attempt to casually pull her hand away, but he has other plans and wraps his hand around hers, carefully prying back her fingers and pulling it to his mouth.

"Well, if you won't wish me good luck, I'll wish it for you."

He blows across her palm, and it travels along her fingers up her arm, underneath her clothes and up to her face and neck, the heat turning her red everywhere it touches.

"Thanks," she says and doesn't linger, pulling her hand back, and shaking out the dice until she feels herself cool down a bit. The dice tumble across the table and it’s a heart-stalling moment when she sees the five dots teeter on the edge of six, the three teeter on the edge of two.

_What would he want of me?_

They fall finally, and she doesn't whoop or cheer, too mentally exhausted for that, but she does grin and say, "Thanks for the luck."

The three and five don't smile up at her, but Henry is at her elbow, grinning down at her. A fair compromise.

"You win?"

The kid can’t stop moving and Emma looks between him and Killian.

“Emmet, who is this?”

He already sound suspicious so Emma opts for the truth first. “This is Henry, and he is my favor. He wants to join the crew.”

Killian is silent for so long that Henry ends up tugging at Emma’s sleeve like a nervous child. Well, he still is pretty much a kid.

“And you think this to be a reasonable request, Emmet?”

The coolness in his voice surprises her. Henry stops pulling at her sleeves. She can almost feel the kid slump into melancholy.

“I do,” she says firmly. “He is, after all, not much younger than I was when I first stepped onto a ship. Give him half a chance and he could be as _valuable_ as me.”

Killian is silent for a shorter period this time. Standing from his seat, he says, “Well, then he best be prepared to live up to your standards.”

“Is that a yes? It’s a yes, isn’t it?” Henry barely breathes. He steps away from Emma and Killian, fumbling out a quick, “Thank you, Captain” to Killian and an even quicker, “I have to go tell Ursula, get my things, thank you, thank you,” to Emma.

Henry’s excitement feels like success, but Killian is stiff-backed when he steps outside of his seat, and picks a quick way through the growing crowd. Emma follows him with her eyes, but his exit out the door has her doing the same with her feet, running to catch up to him.

He stands just outside the door, staring into the night. The storm is picking up, which either means Poseidon is about to try and toss another ship underneath the sea, or he’s prepping for their exit – to see if they’re worthy enough to leave his daughter behind.

“Are you not going to stay for Ursula’s performance?” Emma asks.

Killian looks at her over his shoulder. He isn’t smiling, nor is there any hint of one, but he isn’t frowning either. It’s just…blank.

She would’ve preferred the frown.

(You don’t know how much you miss something until it’s gone.

It’s probably too early to be missing his smile.)

“I’ve a ship to run, Emmet.”

“You’d think the Captain would already be prepared to set sail this late at night, right?” Emma jokes.

Killian smiles slightly, small enough that it could be unnoticeable. Still, his expression is more darkened than amused.  

“You would think,” he says quietly.

It’s like they’ve flipped. Somehow, Emma’s knocked him off kilter enough to draw him into himself, and she’s won this dice game at the cost of their (sort of) easy camaraderie.

(Is it too early to be missing that?)

She wants it back.

Unthinkingly – because thinking would halt her in her tracks, remind her that distance is better – she grabs his arm.

She wonders if he’ll feel the burn of her hand like she felt his.

He throws a glance over his shoulder again, this one a little more readable. Eyebrow raised, and mouth turned down at the corners, he says her name on a question. “Emmet?”

“I just wanted to know…”

He turns a bit more. Emma drops her hands from his arm, shivering slightly from the cold and moves around him until they can face each other.

“What favor would you have asked of me?”

A true smile spills across Killian’s face as if it were never gone at all and he ends up reaching over to tap her on the chin. Angling Emma’s head up, he sighs. “It’s regretful, Emmet, that you lost. You would’ve made an excellent cabin boy, but I suppose Henry will have to do.”

She leans into his hand, but he _is_ still touching her so she can’t be blamed for standing there a bit too long, for staring at him a bit too long, for wanting a bit too much.

(Just a bit.)

Emma lifts her hand to her chin and draws his hand away, studiously ignoring the butterflies of her stomach taking flight again. She did bring this on herself after all.

“I don’t think I would have, but I admire your faith in me.”

It’s another in a long line of poor choice of words. She knows it. He knows it. Nonetheless, it pulls a small chuckle out of him, his expression easing towards normal, so Emma accepts it for what it is.

(Which is what, exactly?)

“Or perhaps you just admire me?”

(Well, there’s the answer.)

Emma snorts.

(If you don’t laugh you cry right? Or speak too fast and end up admitting truths you’d rather hide.)

“You _are_ admirable,” she says.

Carefully chosen words this time.

“I suppose that’s the best answer I’m going to get, am I right?” Killian teases.

Emma grins back. “You’re not wrong.”

Killian gives her a minute shake of his head. His smile lessens, but it does not fade into the blankness, his cheeks still lightly lifted.

“Henry’s to be your duty. You’ll have to teach him the ways of a sailor and how to be a proper pirate, and you’ll have to make sure he lives long enough for those teachings to actually mean something to him,” Killian explains sternly.

Emma doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a near thing.

The cheekiness, however…

“His protector, yes? I can manage that easily enough as long as he doesn’t turn out to be as… _adventurous_ as some of the people I’ve encountered whose names I shall not speak aloud lest I get myself into trouble.”

“Good choice,” Killian says.

Emma nods, agreeing. Smiling at him feels like a good choice, too, so she does as she says, “I’ll start with making sure he’s on the ship before we take off, then?”

Killian returns her smile, and turns – all the way back around to say, “To be clear, if he fails in his duties, it’ll be you who has to pick up the slack. So, give some thought to your potential as a cabin boy.”

“Will do, sir.”

She salutes because he loved it just _so much_ the last time she did it on Circe’s beach.

“I do have a name. Feel free to use it.”

She salutes again. “Will do, Captain.”

Killian makes a frustrated noise, walking away. The wind buffets him down the path, and yet, his laughter travels, music to her ears.

Ursula has started to sing.

“Killian Jones,” she says quietly, like her mouth isn’t used to the sound. It feels different with permission now hanging in the air between them.

An invitation to something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos and comments really have blown me away, and I truly appreciate every single one!


	8. I'm in the mood to help you dude

Facts are anything that can be observed. Emma remembers this vaguely from her science lessons – the ones she begged for when she’d thought alchemy was Absolutely Necessary and had big plans to be the alchemist who finally managed to turn lead to gold.

(Her plans always seem to fall through; she should remember this for future reference.)

She’s reminded of _this_ fact by Victor. He wraps an arm around her shoulder that Emma nearly wrenches off in her hurry to break free and tells her, “Your boy’s got some great sea legs on him.”

It isn’t his fault that the moment he says it and draws Emma’s gaze to the center of the deck that Killian enters her view, clapping a hand on Henry’s skinny shoulder and telling him something. Emma can’t make out the words but it makes Henry’s face brighten, and Killian grins.

“That’s a fact,” Emma says because even though they’re rocking in the stiff breeze, Henry manages to keep on his feet. And well, Killian…

If a fact is _anything_ that can be observed, then Emma can list these facts.

  1.       Henry is a natural sailor.
  2.       Victor is sober enough to recognize this.
  3.       Killian has a great pair of legs



The last one might not be an exact fact, more Emma’s opinion than an absolute truth. Not observable to everyone, probably, or as factual as saying the sky is grey overhead, Smee has yet to load all the supplies on the ship and the storm has ended before it really begun.

#4 – and this one actually _is_ a fact – is that Emma likes Killian. _Likes_ him in the way she can’t deny. It’s too obvious at this point. It’s fact. Emma could go through the hypotheticals of why – because he has a nice smile, or that he always seems interested or how he seems to share moments with her that he shares with no one else. Yet, that isn’t going to help with her problem of liking him when she should not. Emmet should _definitely_ not.

(Are sailors supposed to fancy their Captains? Emma doesn’t need to run a poll to answer that one.)

“You’re awfully quiet today, Emmet. How about we do a last run at the tavern. Sneak away while Smee’s occupying the Captain’s attention?”

Emma glances at him. Laughing at Victor is a welcome change of topic.

“You have a problem,” Emma says.

“I have a lot of problems, Emmet, but alcohol isn’t one.”

“Tell that to your liver.”

He raises an eyebrow while slipping his arm into hers. “You really should reconsider being my assistant. Don’t let your intelligence go to waste.”

Emma feels both _her_ eyebrows raise. She allows him to lead her towards the gangplank and down it before she acknowledges his statement.

“And you think my intelligence is going to waste? Why?”

Victor shrugs in Emma’s arm and leans just a bit closer. He doesn’t smell today. This world truly is a wondrous place.

“You’re here.”

“So are you,” Emma accuses.

Victor sighs as they follow the familiar steps to the tavern. “But I have no choice, and I’m willing to bet that you do. Why you would choose this is beyond me…unless you feel like sharing? We can discuss our woes over a bottle of rum.”

His words are a reminder Emma would rather not have.

(Fact Number Five feels the most dangerous of them all: You have everything, Emma, which begs the question: What more could you want?)

“No, we can’t.”

Defensive, Emma pulls out of his arm. Victor raises his hands, and takes a step out of her space. Emma clenches her hands, even though she has no plans to hit him – anger just has a way of making her want to dig crescents into her skin. Just one of her many bad habits.

“It was just a suggestion. Maybe I overstepped my bounds?”

Victor doesn’t look scared or angered, but concerned, face twisted up like he’s trying to diagnose her. Emma wilts.

“I haven’t had much sleep,” she explains.

“Trust me on this,” Victor says, patting her arm. “Alcohol makes everything better.”

Somehow, Emma is unsurprised at the footsteps that sound behind them and the voice that follows, its owner steps into their lane: “Leading Emmet down the path of wickedness, are we?”

Killian just has a way of always being there with his one-liners. And his grin, which thankfully, he’s directing at Victor for the moment.

_Thankfully_ , it’s a familiar grin and not anger at Victor and Emma for skipping out. Actually, Emma’s never seen him angry, and not that she has any desire to do so, but it’s strange. Excluding last night, she’s only ever seen him smile.

“I’m leading him down the path to the tavern, so take that for what you will.”

Killian looks between the two of them. With a shake of his head, he says, “How about I lead, then?”

Emma throws back her shoulders, resting her hand on her belt so she can make the slightly haughty tilt of her chin a little cheekier. “Because you’re the captain?”

Killian shakes his head again. “Oh boy,” she thinks she hears him say, but it’s a quiet murmur. Louder, he says, “Because you’re both going the wrong way.”

Emma looks around and ends up mimicking Killian’s motion, shaking her head at Victor, too. She didn’t even notice that they’d veered off course a couple of streets ago, but how can she be faulted for that? You’re supposed to trust your doctors, right?

(Emma would have to be sedated or drunk herself to trust Victor with anything besides a bottle of booze.)

“I’m a doctor, not a navigator.” Victor shrugs.

(What can you do?)

“I’ll remember that for next time. Jot it right down in my book so I can’t forget and neither will you since you seem to think that it’s free to read.”

She actually sounds like her mother when she says that, sneaking a genuine chastisement into a joke. Now Emma knows why her mother does it so often. It’s fun as hell to watch Victor squirm.

Victor glances in Killian’s direction. He doesn’t bother hiding his guilt.

“Shouldn’t go through a man’s things,” Killian comments.

“What a team you two make,” Victor says in an unamused drawl.

Killian takes this as an excuse to follow in Victor’s footsteps and clap her on the back. “See? This is exactly what I told you. We make a great team.”

Victor snickers. “Of course you did. You and your…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Emma gets the feeling there’s something important being left unsaid. As curious as ever, she makes the decision to find out what it is. It could be no worse than any of the decisions she’s made so far.

(Right?)

“Lead on, Captain,” Emma says, waving a hand for him to go.

“Right. I don’t want to keep a lady waiting,” he says and sets off at a quick pace down the path.

Emma pauses, fingers on the bracelet’s clasp. He couldn’t mean her. “Ursula left for her performance already.”

She wishes Ursula hadn’t left yet, seeing as neither had they. It would have been nice to spend a few more moments with her – with a _friend_. At least, she did promise to be there for Emma’s 21 st birthday celebration.

The one that she would have at home. After she left Killian and Victor and everyone else behind.

(At least, you’ll prove Victor right. Having the choice to leave this life behind. Stop letting your life go to waste.)

Killian twists his head to look at her. Smile, as always, curling happy lines into his cheeks.

(What a waste.)

“Not Ursula, lad, but another old friend.”

Victor’s at his side, so Killian is able to nudge him and wink _very_ suggestively. Emma can’t look at that for too long, lest she lose her mind. Victor seems to agree, groaning loudly.

“Milah’s _here_? No wonder Poseidon was so quick to calm the storm with that soft spot of his.”

Victor scoffs. Shakes his head. Shrugs his shoulder, and throws his head back again, another heavy sigh. Emma finds herself incredibly unimpressed.

“Oh, come off it, Victor, you love Captain Milah.”

Victor scoffs again. “ _I_ do?”

Emma frowns at the exchange. _Milah_. Another pirate captain that Killian apparently knew and…loved. _Milah_. The name sits funny in her stomach. It’s a warrior’s name. But soft in a way. At least how Killian says it, soft and fond.

Emma marches around them, heading to the tavern in quicker steps than their lounging gait.

“Now you’re eager for that drink?” Victor calls after her.

“Yea.”

She reaches the tavern before they do and steps inside to a cacophony of laughter and Sebastian standing at the door, looking tired.

“Long night?” Emma asks.

“Even longer morning,” Sebastian replies and waves her in.

Emma isn’t looking, she isn’t, but the womanly laughter draws her eyes to the large table pressed against the back wall.  Men and women _lounge_ about (sitting would be the wrong word to name the way their feet rest in each other’s laps, the table, holding each other up).

Emma knows _Captain Milah_ when she sees her. No need for garish pirate caps, her dark, windswept hair with the crooked braids and the easiness of her wrinkled grin are enough to tell Emma that she’s the one in charge. It’s like watching an older, female Killian in action as she tosses dice on the table and shoves an excited elbow into one of the ladies’ sides, laughing as they groan about their loss.

The door swings open behind her. Not to be caught staring, Emma saunters (walking too fast would draw attention) to a table near the bar, where one of the servers is quick to bring her an ale. She takes long sips and watches as Victor and Killian approach Milah’s table.

“Killian! I didn’t know you were here,” she shouts. She doesn’t clamber from her seat, but she does wave a hand for the man beside her to vacate his so Killian can sit down.

“I’m not supposed to be, but I’m gratified by Smee’s incompetence for once. If we’d have everything on the ship when we were supposed to, we would’ve been gone across the seas, and I’d have missed your beautiful visage.”

“Just my visage?” Milah asks.

As Killian moves towards her, her crew starts to move out of their seats, finding new tables to sit at. A sign of respect perhaps, or eager to abandon the two to their…whatever is happening between them. Killian has a hand on Milah’s, playing with the silver, heart shaped ring on her finger even before he sits down beside her.

“Alright, I just came to greet you, Milah, not to indulge in this,” Victor says.

“I feel so greeted,” Milah says.

She lifts her eyes to Victor, one dark eyebrow rising with her gaze. Her eyes are a bright green, glowing in the tavern light.

“Captain, whenever you’re ready to set sail…” Victor doesn’t finish the sentence.

Leaving the pair to themselves, he plops down on the seat across from Emma.

“That’s Captain Milah, if you didn’t know,” Victor explains.

Words comes faster than thought. “They seem friendly,” Emma says.

“They have a _friendly_ rivalry,” Victor corrects, shaking his finger at her.

Emma tears her eyes away from them to look at Victor, but out of the corner of her eye she can see Milah press closer, and Killian’s raucous laughter can’t be ignored.

"How friendly?"

Fact #4 in mind, it can be argued that Emma might be a little bit jealous of the way Milah lays her head on Killian’s shoulder. Of the dark tresses he runs his fingers through and the smile he receives in turn.

It can be argued.

But thank everything, _everything_ , that when Victor’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, it’s a different argument on his tongue. "Are you attracted to Captain Milah? She likes her men with a bit more hair on their chest, and you don’t even have a beard."

"No,” Emma says far too loud, but Milah’s laugh drowns it out so –

(So, Emma might be jealous.)

“That sounds like a lie,” he sings.

“It’s merely a denial.”

“Of the truth.”

“Oh, just get your drink and shut up,” Emma says. “Speaking of, I need a refill to get me through the rest of this conversation, no doubt.”

She stands and Victor slaps her on the back, saying, “Now, we’re talking!”

Emma can’t decide whether it’s the lecher in him or the doctor in him that makes him so physical. Either way, she doesn’t appreciate it.

“Not if you’re passed out in your drink,” Emma snaps. Sweeter, she says, “I’ll order a plate of food, too. I need you awake to navigate us back to the ship.”

Victor groans.

(Soon, she’ll be chastising with the best of them.)

Emma smiles at the bartender as she leans over the counter. “Two ales, please, and uh, whatever plates are easiest to fix?”

She smiles back at Emma, and busies herself with pouring the drinks so Emma busies herself with ignoring the laughter from Killian’s direction – the laughter, the giggles, Emma can’t hear a thing.

Not a peep.

What she does hear is Victor trying to (poorly) seduce one of Milah’s crew, so Emma sighs and quickly grabs up the ales when they come.

Emma to the rescue. Emma, the legendary hero. Emma, the savior.

(It has a nice ring to it.)

Stepping between Victor and the woman, she says, “Victor, drink this before you embarrass yourself more,” and thrusts the mug of ale into his raised hands.

The woman lowers her fist and slowly returns to her seat, eyeing Victor evilly every time he glances in her direction.

Eventually, he gets the hint.

Emma taps her fingers on the table. She can still sort of see Killian and Milah despite turning farther in her seat. They’ve gone quiet. Killian has an arm wrapped around her shoulder. Emma can’t make anything else out and doesn’t want to.

(Really.)

“Well, we have our drinks, I believe that it’s time to lay our hearts out on the table. Spilling secrets, and not drinks?”

She closes her eyes and takes a long swig of her ale. “Why do you seem to think I have secrets?”

“We all do,” Victor says. “Some are just more obvious than others.”

Grinning, he says, “Take me for example, I drown my sorrows in alcohol. Only a man looking to forget his past drinks like I do. Trust me on this, I’m a doctor.”

Emma smiles at the confession. “But if I had a secret past, don’t you think I’d do the same?”

“Perhaps it’s your present that’s a secret.”

(Close.)

“Or perhaps, I’m an open book,” Emma suggests quietly, leaning over the table like it _is_ a secret. Teasing.

Victor rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s what the Captain says.”

Eagerly, Emma watches him take another drink. She didn’t even have to bring up his earlier unfinished words. Victor is all about “spilling secrets” today, and Emma is here to clean them up…or something.

(She doesn’t know where she’s going with this metaphor.)

“Is it?”

Victor grins at her over the rim of his cup. “He calls you his reminder. I have no idea what that means, but it must be something nice. He’s always smiling when he says it.”

Emma stills. It’s hard to resist looking over at him. If she does, he’ll surely be looking – at her or at Milah and she isn’t sure what will be worse.

Her heart kind of aches. She also isn’t sure whether this is good or bad.

“He smiles all the time,” Emma says.

“Well, that’s true.”

The door slams open and Emma jerks her head up at the sound. Henry stands, framed in the doorway, but not for long, skipping past Sebastian quickly.

“Hey,” Emma says, grabbing Henry’s arm as he tries to fly by her. It pulls him back, nearly dragging him to the floor, but Victor balances him with an arm to his back.

(Ah, teamwork.)

“Where are you running off to?”

Henry’s face, so serious before, splits happily. “To get the Captain. Smee’s all set, finally.” He scratches his neck tiredly. “Those crates were heavier than me.”

His smile turns into a pout. “I looked for you, but you weren’t around.”

“It’s the pirate way, kid,” Emma says.

It isn’t an apology, but Henry takes it as one – or advice. His face screws up like he’s jotting it down in his mind.

“Well, the Captain’s occupied for the moment, so you should eat. As Victor hasn’t touched his plate –”

“Emmet! Henry!”

Their heads jerk to the sound at the same time, almost the same motion. Killian is waving a hand at them, the other still coiled around Milah. Milah’s gaze travels from Emma to Henry before settling on Henry, a contemplative lift to her eyebrow.

“I didn’t think you took boys on your ship, Killian.”

“I’m fourteen,” Henry says while Emma groans. The harping on ages is going to give her gray hairs before she turns twenty one. At least she knows she’ll look good. Grey always did bring out the green in her eyes.

“A mere decade between you and our impressive Captain,” Milah says. The sidelong glance Killian gives her makes her sigh. “A decade and a year.”

“I don’t take boys on my ship, but Emmet made a very convincing argument,” Killian says, his other hand drawing Milah's attention back to Emma.

Her smile widens.

“Killian, did you lose a bet?” she teases, poking him in the side. Somewhere down below where Emma can’t see.

“Luck wasn’t on my side, but then again, I suppose it was. Henry is already proving himself quite capable, and I was in need of a cabin boy. Can’t keep relying on Smee for those duties. He’s getting on in age.”

“And weight,” Victor remarks.

Emma coughs into her hand.

"That is true, however, irrelevant."

True severity eludes Killian’s words, so Victor still huffs.

"Killian, did I ever tell you about a little kingdom just north of Misthaven?" Milah says, barely loud enough for anyone but Killian to hear.

Emma perks up and then sinks back into her seat, hoping that no one noticed her motion. She's supposed to be a street kid. An orphan with nothing to miss, not getting excited at the mention of a place she left behind.

"What about it?"

Milah strokes a finger across his cheek. "The princess of that kingdom is looking for a companion. A princely companion, but a companion."

"And you think I can woo her?"

(A pirate woo a princess? Isn't that just the best joke you've ever heard?)

"I think he can."

Milah jabs a hand at Henry.

"What?" Victor snorts.

"The kid?" Emma asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't want to woo anyone," Henry adds.

"Not woo. A companion. A friend. She's only thirteen, she isn't looking to be wooed for quite some time."

Milah laughs into Killian's shoulder, hard enough to make him shake with her.

"And what would be in it for us? I assume a small fortune."

"Killian, you know I would make it worth your while. Yes, their treasury is vast. Midas' granddaughter must be well kept for."

Emma freezes. Midas. She should've guessed. Cassandra would be thirteen this year, but Emma hasn't seen her since she was five years old and running around with pigtails flapping in the air, turned gold by her grandfather's touch. Princess Kathryn had gone on at length about how long it would take for it to grow out, but little Cassie thought it was the coolest thing ever, despite it being the heaviest hairstyle she'd had yet.

(She'd had some heavy hairstyles even at her young age. Her mother was a fan of high buns.)

That close to Misthaven, Emma should've guessed.

But last night had stolen her sense of wariness. If only for a moment, she'd thought luck was on her side. She should've known it was too good to be true.

"So, you want us to woo the gold-cursed king's granddaughter. And what shall you be doing in the meantime, sweet Milah?"

"She's anything but sweet," Victor adds.

Emma coughs again, kicking a foot out against Victor's knee. He hisses and shakes the table as he reaches down to rub the bruised skin.

"Thank you, Emmet," Killian says. He turns his head into Milah's. "You've yet to answer my question."

"Killian, if I divulged my course, you'd race me to get there just so you could say you'd beat me at something for once. I have no intention of _stroking_ –” she says the word with a lick of her bottom lip. Emma almost wants to apologize to Victor. Milah is anything but sweet. “– your ego this time. Comfort yourself with knowing that yours will be a better trip than mine."

“You act like you’re going to face death itself.”

Weariness catches her expression, just for a second. “Death would be kinder.”

Henry tugs at her sleeve and Emma’s thankful for the distraction from the intimate exchange. “The Captain isn’t really considering this, is he?”

Emma doesn’t know whether to lie to him to protect his sanity or be truthful and prepare him for the future.

A future she’ll have to face, too. With her Aunt and her cousin.

Emma chooses the easiest path. She pulls a face and says, “We should head back to the ship.”

“But we just got here.”

If Victor wasn't a doctor-pirate, he'd make a great court jester. Emma will have to put in a good word for him with her parents.

“You can stay. Henry and I will only be happy to leave you behind.”

“We will?”

Henry sounds _saddened_ by the prospect. Emma can fix that easily.

“Henry, you want to be a pirate? Don’t follow the doctor’s example.”

Now, Henry sounds appropriately suspicious. “He’s the doctor?”

“Don’t get sick, either," Emma warns.

“Honestly, Emmet, is this how you show your appreciation for the man keeping you healthy and well?”

_Oh, come on_.

“You brought me out for drinks.”

Victor waves her off. “Emmet, the liver is only necessary for a few functions, nothing too important...not really."

"Well, that's good because I don't think you have one."

"I could always replace it with someone else's."

Victor eyes the patrons in the bar, searching over them with dark eyes. Emma snaps a finger in front of his face until he turns back to her.

"Okay, Doctor, bring the creepy down a notch." She turns to Henry. "You coming?"

“Yeah, I don’t want him to take my liver.”

“I wasn’t being serious!”

Emma and Henry share a look. Raise their eyebrows at the same time, wide eyes almost identical, and Emma has to sling an arm around his shoulder; it would be impossible not to when he’s laughing with her.

“Just make sure not to fall asleep around him,” Emma whispers, loud enough that Victor can hear as they walk past.

“Will do,” Henry replies.

Victor’s laughter, high, wild and super creepy, follows them out of the bar.

\--

“I don’t know how to be a prince.”

His nose wrinkles. He’s too old for Emma to tap him on it and tell him to shape up, but Emma wants to. Or…

“First off, if you’re going to be a royal, you need to react like one. They never reveal that they’re confused by something. Not in public company. No nose wrinkling,” she says.

She taps him on the nose, and he laughs.

So she was wrong. You’re never too old for the nose boop.

“So _you_ know how to be a prince?”

Emma squares her shoulders, hands on her hips. “I know _all_ about it. You may not know how to be a prince, but I’m an excellent teacher.”

“Really?”

“Ask the Captain. He didn’t know how to survive until he met me.”

She shouldn’t be surprised by him anymore. She should just play the mouse, always expecting the cat to be on the prowl, but she feels more like another cat…

(Emma isn’t so great at this metaphor thing.)

“Oh, it’s true, Henry. Emmet has taught me well. I was but a pirate until I met him. He taught me how to be a gentleman.”

Emma frowns, turning to face him. “Didn’t you tell me you didn’t need my lessons, that you were already a gentleman?”

His brows raise, eyes flashing in warning. _Oh_. “I lied of course. Like I said, I was a pirate, now I’m almost genteel.”

Emma gives him a long look up and down. Genteel. She could imagine what her own tutors would say at him in his leather ensemble and gaudy rings, with that rakish grin on his lips.

He still has a bit of work to go.

"Henry," Emma says, turning back to face him. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," he confirms.

"Then, believe me when I say that I can teach you well enough that you'd fool even the King and Queen of Misthaven."

"You make it sound like it's so easy," Henry says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Perhaps it is. Now, straighten up, hands at your sides. Don't cross your arms, it's unbecoming."

Killian taps a hand on her shoulder, and Emma glances up at him as he comes to stand beside her. "Don't be so hard on the boy. I'll need him yet…unless you're ready to take up his duties?"

"That isn't in the cards," Emma says.

"Or the roll of the die, I suppose."

He smirks, and runs a finger through his hair. Sleeves pushed up, a sight that’s becoming uncomfortably familiar, Emma can see his tattoo.

She doesn’t take her eyes from it when she asks, "You don't have any tattoos, right, Henry?"

"No, why?"

Emma nods. "Good. We'd have to cover them up if you did. Just in case of any situations where they might be seen."

"What kind of _situations_?"

Henry looks absolutely terrified. Emma has to choke back a laugh.

With authority that Emma misses using, she says, "Princesses are a spontaneous lot. Often, they'll think it's a good idea to go swimming at dawn or go camping in the forest in nothing but their day dresses. It could be any kind of situation with them. They are princesses after all. Who's going to tell them what to do?"

"Their parents?"

Emma chokes back another laugh. "If only it were that simple," she's sure her parents would say if they heard his response.

She shrugs. "Who listens to their parents?"

"Good point, Emmet. If any of us sorry lot had parents to listen to, we wouldn't be scourges of the seas now would we?"

Even this makes him grin, but her chest hurts at the ease of his smile. She recognizes her mother in him, her mouth curved up, soft as she tells Emma about her mother’s kind hand and the flowers she would let little Snow weave in her hair. Talking of the father that would squeeze her cheeks until she smiled. These people that Emma will never know. At one point, Emma confessed to her father that she hated mentioning them because it would always end with Snow looking past Emma, locked in a past that always seemed to dim the light in her eyes. So, he told her to find the humor in the stories instead, to look for the good moments in between the bad ones.

Taking his advice, she says, "Are we really scourges of the sea, though? As it is, we've only pulled one heist and -”

"Emmet."

"Sorry," Emma says, not sorry in the slightest.

Killian stares at her for a moment longer than she is comfortable with and Fact #4 comes rearing it’s not at all ugly, but handsome, rakish, pirate captain shaped head. For a second it was easy. She'd forgotten that she's smitten with the way he looks at her.

(Her memory always seems weaker around him.)

Yet, she can't forget right now, when he has that small smile on his face and he _keeps_ looking at her.

It's Henry's impatient tapping of his foot that drags Emma out of her own head. Quickly, Emma pulls around and taps Henry on the nose again.

"Your impatience is not fitting of a prince. You should be grateful to even be graced with a lady's company, no matter how long it takes her to get ready."

"Right," Henry says, that same 'I'm writing this down in my head' look in his eyes.

Emma softens.

"Do you know how to write, Henry? Or read?"

"No."

"Well, I'll have to teach you that as well. When you finish your duties for the Captain, find me and we'll get started on those lessons."

"When do you plan on sleeping, Emmet?" Killian asks.

(She doesn't read into the concerned tone.)

"After I've taught him enough to get past Midas guards without getting himself imprisoned."

The thought makes her cringe. King Midas’ security are a force that Emma never wants to be on the wrong side of. When you have a golden touch, people crawl out of the woodwork trying to cut off a hand or two, so you have to find guards willing to do the same.

Killian scoffs at her words, however. “I don't plan to get the boy killed."

"Midas wouldn't kill a child. I did say imprisoned for a reason."

The Authority voice kicked in and didn't kick back out apparently. Killian's giving her that look.

To be specific, as he gives her a lot of _that_ looks, he eyes her like she's edging a little too far over the line.

"How do you know what a king might do?"

Faking uncertainty, she says, "Killing kids isn't really his thing, or we'd have heard about it before now, right? He’s not evil. Just cursed.”

Killian relaxes. “Well, he bears his curse well. And surely, he will not kill a child."

"I'm not a child," Henry says.

"No pouting, or whining," Emma snaps.

Henry straightens, and tries to change his expression, but fails miserably. Emma likes the honesty of his expressions. It reminds her of Ursula, telling her just what he’s thinking from the frown in his brow to the turn of his lips.

"We’re going to have to work hard, but that's okay. We'll make a prince out of you yet."

He nods, satisfied with this response. After a moment of hesitation, he looks up at Killian and says, “I’m going to get back to work.”

Killian nods and Henry flies off, heavy feet bounding across the deck towards a couple of crewmen, leaving Emma and Killian alone.

Emma should make her own hasty escape soon, but her feet fail her. So, she stands beside Killian, counting the hairs on his head that blow about in the wind. 

"I suppose we’ll save the manhood lessons for after he learns how to be a prince?" Killian teases.

(Like she would know _anything_ about that.)

"You can make a man out of him, I've got enough on my plate as it is."

Killian makes a noise of disbelief, giving her a bemused smile. "You act as if you're captaining a ship."

She shouldn't.

She does.

"So do you."

His smile fades, but she doesn't flinch when he reaches towards her, which is worrisome but unsurprising. Killian taps her on the nose.

"You get cheekier by the day. Keep it up and I'll make a true pirate of you yet."

Emma flushes.

Apparently, you're never too old for a nose boop.

-

In between commenting on the way Henry's holding himself, speaking, or just _being_ and fulfilling her actual duties, Emma finds herself in the forecastle with Victor and the man that tried to steal Henry's stolen money.

(Her money, to be clear.)

It’s a tense occasion, one Emma had wished to avoid, even though she'd known she'd have to face him sooner or later. Men like him will hold a grudge until you beat it out of them - Emma had a guard like that once. He didn't last long.

Victor and Emma talk around it, but it’s still uncomfortable, even if Victor keeps trying to dissect her with his mind (thankfully.)

"Oh, you really think you know about the human body? Tell me something, Emmet, where did you learn so much?"

She can feel her blood pressure rising, which she knows makes no sense; you’re not supposed to be frustrated with having to repeat your own lie, right?

"As I've told you before - though I can understand why you might forget, drowning past sorrows and all - I like to read. Whatever books I can get my hands on…Speaking of, can I borrow some books for Henry? I know you have a few."

Victor claps his hands together, bowl clattering on the table when he drops his elbows on it. "Ah, you're going to teach him to be my assistant? Perfect."

"No, and besides, he's the Captain's cabin boy. He doesn't have time for you, too."

Victor frowns. "As a fan of fairy tales, you sure like killing a man's dreams."

Emma laughs. Despite all the things she can say and has said about Victor, at least he always manages to make her laugh. He's good company.

"Just yours. But I do need those books, Henry's-"

She expected it. It wasn't like the tension disappeared because she and Victor were talking over the man's grunts.

"What does that boy need? Perhaps, I can assist."

(Perhaps, you can kiss my -)

Emma lets her grip loosen on her spoon. "Thank you, but it’s not necessary."

He stands from his seat, boots scraping loudly on the floor. Victor lets out a loud sigh.

"Are we really doing this macho bravado standoff?" he asks.

"I just want to help," the man says.

He looks like a true pirate. Missing teeth and an evil grin. Emma is rather glad that Killian has yet to make her a real pirate. She likes having her teeth.

"We don't need it." Emma says. And because they really are doing this macho bravado thing, she stands from her seat, places a hand on the hilt of her sword. "I've seen what help you're willing to offer, and it’s not the kind I want."

He spits by her feet. Emma doesn't flinch, which isn’t worrisome at all. She's been taught better than to let some scum intimidate her. Flashbacks to her first evening spent in that seaside town clench up her stomach, but still she doesn't flinch when he steps towards her.

Her sword sounds loudly as she jerks it halfway out the scabbard. Victor jumps at the sound, stepping out of his seat and between Emma and the man. It’s only his "careful" words that stay her blade and the man’s. He has the cutlass already in his hand, knuckles white from his grip.

"Emmet, do you think the Captain would appreciate you using your sword skills on someone besides himself. I believe he'd think it a talent wasted."

Emma huffs.

("Careful.")

"Ward, you wouldn't want me to have to patch you up. My hands aren't what they used to be, before the drink."

Victor holds his hands out as if to prove his point, but they're steady and his expression, darker than it was in the bar. He could be on the hunt for replacement livers and more.

Emma could honestly laugh if Ward (a name she'd be sure to forget) hadn't finally put his sword away.

She can save her laughter for later.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he grunts.

He spits again, right in the doorway. Emma doesn't envy the person who'll have to clean this up. She'll just make sure it isn't Henry.

"Emmet. What did I tell you about angering those types?" Victor says, settling back into his seat.

"Nothing actually, but I'll be sure to take those nonexistent words to heart."

She clutches her heart for effect. Victor appreciates the humor, laughing into his bowl.

"Oh, shut up and finish your stew. I don’t understand why you haven’t yet. It doesn't even have a hair in it this time!"

"Truly the height of culinary genius," Emma remarks.

She sits down and eats her stew. It is delicious.

Truly the _height_ of culinary genius.

-

In between teaching Henry minor lessons in etiquette and proper pronunciations and her assisting Smee with all the duties he's too tired to do, Emma doesn't find any energy to think. She finds it a welcome escape from overthinking every interaction she has with Killian.

Like the morning he watched her as she and Henry danced (badly; Henry still hasn't mastered stepping in time but he tries better than most princes Emma's met). And he started to give her tips, which were helpful in the way that they made her face burn hotter than the sun beating down on them and made her want to fumble with her bracelet just to make sure it still remained tight on her arm.

Or the evening.

The evening where he invited Emma and Henry to his cabin.

"I have a desk. It'll make the writing easier. And a quieter room makes it easier to focus."

A valid argument, and it would've proved true if he wasn't there to screw up Emma's focus worse than any crowded room.

It starts off well enough. Henry has a talent for penmanship. Tracing the letters is easy for him and he imitates Emma's handwriting well enough. The reading gives him trouble. Sounding out the words correctly becomes a nightmare when Emma doesn't know the words herself. Amazingly, Victor’s books were actually doctoral. Incredibly complex ones with bindings and typeface Emma has never seen in Misthaven. Emma is tempted to ask, but the alcoholism gives her pause, and his own explanation of it: to forget the past.

It seems wrong to bring it up.

They give up on his book ten pages in. Emma calls it a temporary pause, but she doesn't intend to return to it. Ever.

She doesn't want to pull out her own handwritten book as of yet. Henry needs to be more comfortable with letters before he can move onto deciphering handwriting (and she’ll have to block out more than a few pages), so she starts to poke around Killian's room instead.

He has pen and paper. If he writes, he must be able to read what he writes, and he seems like the type to enjoy reading.

(He likes trying to read her well enough.)

She isn't exactly sneaking about Killian’s cabin, but he still catches her in the act.

"Emmet?"

"Is looking for a book," Henry yawns. Good kid, coming to her defense.

"And you thought you'd find some there?"

Granted that Emma wasn't really paying attention to where she was looking, too tired for spatial awareness, but he's right. Why the hell she'd tried the armoire escapes her understanding.

"Forgive me. I _really_ wasn't thinking," she murmurs, stepping back from the armoire.

She yawns and Henry echoes it.

Killian follows a beat later.

It starts off well enough, but Killian beckons Henry to his feet and says, "You've both had a long day, and it shall be longer tomorrow. How about we listen to Emmet read us a bedtime story instead of this?”

He throws a hand towards Emma's and Henry's practice sheets. Emma's stuck on the "read us a bedtime story" so his next words don't connect until moments after he says them.

_"Your writing is quite refined."_

"Quite."

They stare. Killian breaks the look to grab Henry by the arm. "Come on. The bed's comfortable. Emmet, grab your book and get to reading."

He looks so eager that Emma's fight or flight instinct kicks in. Flight isn't an option so she chooses fight instead.

As Henry hops up on Killian's bed, Emma takes a seat in the chair, deliberately avoiding Killian's gaze. Just because she likes him, she isn't going to put herself in situations that might draw attention to the fact (#4! #4!). She doesn't want him to find out. This isn't a “flirt with your intended until they fall for your charms” situation, this is a “minimize the damage” situation.

Killian doesn't make it easy.

"Emmet, join us!"

She looks at Henry to save her again. The poor kid's half-asleep, so there’ll be no heroics from that front.

(Guess, it’s up to the princess to save herself.)

"Over here is fine," Emma says. "Do you really want me to dirty up your sheets?"

"You're probably the cleanest of all my crew. I’d be far more worried about Henry, to be quite honest.”

True, fourteen year old boys are disgusting. However, if that's supposed to be cajoling, it only makes Emma more firm in her decision to stay in the chair.

"Emmet."

"Captain."

" _Killian_.”

(She gets what he’s trying to do, but fight or flight.)

"Are you talking to yourself?" she deadpans.

He runs his hands down the sides of his face. "I might as well with how well you listen to me."

"I listen," Emma insists because her heart wins out, screaming hat it’s important that he knows this.

(Her head is screaming too. Very different things.)

"Aye? And I listen to you, though you rarely say much beyond biting my head off for risking your life.”

He grins as he says it but it feels like a jab in the stomach. Right in the bottom, where there are little fluttering wings beating at her skin. Beating away her sense.

"I say more than that.”

She's pouting now. It’s ridiculous. She's tired.

"Then tell me a story, Emmet."

She starts to open her book, flipping to a story that isn’t dangerously informative, but he says, "No. In your words."

She looks up. He’s taking off his rings, laying them on the bedside table. Emma stares back down at her book, hears the sweep of clothing and is not tempted to look once.

(And does it really matter that Jasmine’s name is swimming on the page? She is tired after all.)

"Is that important? I might not remember every detail,” she says quietly.

She looks up. Doesn’t mean to, but she does.

He’s wearing a new shirt.

(She isn’t disappointed.)

It’s a white cotton blend. She’s never seen him in any color besides black shirts left half-unbuttoned. It looks…different on him. His eyes look really blue as he stares at her.

"It is. I don't mind if you can’t remember, I just want to hear it in your words,” he says, words sleep soft.

(Flight is looking like a better idea with every second that passes.)

"What story?" she asks.

"Ursula says your favorite is hers. Tell me that one."

Emma mumbles. "It’s _one_ of my favorites."

"Are you trying to say that Ursula exaggerated? Narcissism isn’t one of her traits, lad. So, tell me the story. I promise I won’t laugh at your love. That would be unbecoming of a gentleman, wouldn’t it?"

She could laugh if her throat wasn’t so dry. “Okay.”

“He was on the top deck of his ship when he first heard Ursula’s voice, calling out to him across the sea. A voice like the sea itself. Beautiful, haunting, nothing like it in the world.”

Killian’s gaze drops to the book in Emma’s lap. With a raised brow, he says, “Is that how you would describe it? Haunting?”

Emma does actually laugh this time. “Alright. My own words, right.”

She thinks of Ursula’s voice. How her story always made Emma feel and she hears Ursula singing in her head, a soothing melody.

“Her voice spoke of places unseen, far below the sea and miles past the horizon. Worlds unreachable and places unattainable. It sounded like freedom.”

“So, standing on his ship, the pirate listened to her song and grew distracted enough to nearly crash into an expanse of craggy rocks.”

Emma takes a breath. Her throat really _is_ dry.

“‘Mermaids,’ he spat. ‘The most dangerous creatures in the world.’”

“Meanwhile, said mermaid was saying the same thing about him, for very different reasons. She looked on as the pirate ship sailed past the reach of her voice and wished she could be as free as him. Free to share her voice with people, not using it to harm them. Her father, as most fathers, had other plans in mind.”

“And what plans were those?” Killian asks, eager. Interested. His eyes are bright even half-closed. Even slouched in his bed, half-asleep, he manages to give her all his attention.

(It makes her heart jump.)

It makes the telling easier.

“Kill every pirate that crossed their paths. He was blind with rage, understandably so after losing her mother to a pirate’s kidnap attempt. The pirate had intended to ransom the mermaid for the fabled hoard of Poseidon, but he kept her so long away from the water that she’d turned to salt before Poseidon’s eyes.”

Killian nods, closing his own eyes. She studies the rise and fall of his chest, taking another deep breath of her own.

“And where his love had turned to hate, Ursula chose to forgive instead. Two very different sides of the sea – its rage and its calm. So the pirate became the straw that broke the camel’s back – or ship that tore through the whale’s mouth? If I were to use a sea metaphor.”

(If that were to make any kind of sense.)

Killian laughs. At least her terrible metaphors are good for something.

“Ursula argued with her father – ‘Not all pirates are bad. Let me use my voice for good’ – and her father said the worst thing you can say to any teenage girl: No.”

(Emma knows this all too well. Her father made that mistake once and she lived in the forest for a week, just to prove that she could.

It was…semi-successful.)

“So, she took his no, said screw this, and broke into his vault to steal a bracelet that would allow her to walk and live on land without dying. On land, she’d be free from her father. She found that freedom for a brief moment, singing to the locals and the visitors at the small island tavern until _he_ arrived. The Pirate knew her voice from the moment she opened her mouth.”

Emma squeezes her eyes shut at the next part, anger clawing at the back of her throat, dry and hot.

“And she had a face he could never forget. One, he would use to his advantage. He waited until after her last performance, and he grabbed her. Like all pirates, he knew of Poseidon’s hoard, and Poseidon’s daughter would make a great ransom.”

Killian’s eyes are closed, so Emma closes hers, too. Her fists press hard at her lap as she leans, rocking the chair forward, and continues.

“The freedom she found stolen from her, Ursula wept, locked in the brig of the pirate’s ship. And as men came by, begging a song off her and worse, she felt her heart grow colder. Her trust was broken. For the first time, she felt the rage of the sea. She wanted to sing a song that would send them to the depths where they all belonged.”

Emma relaxes. Her favorite part of the story.

“Or so she thought until day came and her guard moved towards her cell, key in hand.”

“Too angry to be fearful, she swore, ‘I’ll kill you first.’ He replied quietly, ‘We’re on the sea, and I’m sure you know how to swim. If you move fast, you can make it over the side of the ship before anyone awakens. Just do me a favor. Sing really loud. I have to make this escape look convincing.”

“It was such a surprise to hear the key click in the lock and him move out of her way that Ursula stood for a moment, unsure. But freedom beckoned to her as it always had, and she sang out her anger and her hurt. The guard fell, so dramatically that he ended up knocking himself out on the bench. And she ran, past the crewmen trying to block out her voice, past the captain, fallen to his knees, and dove over the deck, pulling off the bracelet as she hit the water and swimming down to the depths. A place they could not reach her.”

Emma says this on a sigh. If she quiets enough, she can hear the sea even in here.

“Her father came, trident in hand, ready to turn the pirate ship to pieces, but Ursula stopped him. She was angrier than she’d ever been, could’ve taken his trident and destroyed the ship herself. Yet, when the words left her mouth, it was her own ultimatum: ‘Let them pass or I’ll never forgive you.’”

“Confused, her father rounded on her. But, thinking of the pirate who had saved her, she only said, ‘Not all pirates are bad.’”

Emma finds herself too tired to go on. Opening her eyes, she says, “And well, you know the story from there, right? Ursula convinced her father to let them live, so he cursed them instead. For these pirates to never know safety on the seas again. Cursed with Poseidon’s wrath.”

Fatigue makes her head foggy, so it follows that Emma finds herself confused. She stares into her lap at the book, going over her own words. To herself, mostly, she says, “But that doesn’t make sense. If he cursed all the pirates, then he cursed her savior as well.”

“Not all pirates are pirates, Emmet,” Killian says.

His eyes are open again, staring at her tiredly.

“What does that mean?”

His smile is thin when he says, “It means that at the time I was but a boy on a pirate ship when I knocked myself out releasing Ursula from the Captain’s cell. Got knifed and tossed overboard for my trouble. I would have perished if not for her kindness.”

Emma has a more than enough questions to give her a massive headache, but the first one she asks is: “The Captain stabbed you? A kid?”

Killian lifts his shirt. Emma’s eyes zone in on the scarred muscle. The one she’d touched, not knowing.  Ursula had said it wasn’t her story to correct. Emma had never suspected it would be Killian’s.

This story she’d read over and over again, thinking she knew it, and not knowing anything at all.

“You look like I’ve sprung the worst surprise on you imaginable,” Killian says. He drops his shirt, and lifts his hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

A surprise, yes, but the worst one is not what Emma would call it. With all the secrets she’s keeping, it feels wrong to hear his.

“I’m just sorry,” Emma says finally. “That you had to go through that.”

Killian waves her off. “I’ve been through worse, Emmet. It’s in the past.”

“But you’ll always bear the scars,” she says.

His fingers still. Emma finds her own fingers fiddling with her bracelet. She feels too exposed with her own secrets beating in her chest, trying to find an escape.

“You’re a true poet,” he replies.

“Not even close. I just…read a lot.”

“Well, you can read to me any time. Though, I prefer it in your words.”

His words pull at her, his confession inspiring her own.

“Victor told me that you say I’m an open book, but I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.” (Isn't that veering far too close to the truth?) She takes a breath, forcing herself not to keep back the words she truly wants to admit. “You’re my reminder, too.”

“A reminder of what?”

( _Not all pirates are bad._ )

“To find the good in between the bad.”

Quiet follows her words, an uncomfortable weight pressing on her chest. Her bracelet feels too tight on her arm. For a second, she wants to rip it off, to rub at the skin underneath.

It’s too quiet. Too still.

(She won’t look at him.)

The boat rocks gently. Emma imagines she can hear the water, splashing against the sides of the ship, but all she can hear is her own breathing. Uneven, fractured sounds.

“I fell asleep. Missed the story,” Henry yawns out. Emma cants her head to the side to look at him while he rubs at his eyes with the bruised knuckles of his fists. Henry thought he could lift one of the heavier crates on his own, a kid’s miscalculation of his own strength.

Just a kid. How much older could Killian have been?

How much younger?

(She _can’t_ look at him.)

“It was a good story,” Killian says, a soft sound.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Emma promises. She drops her fingers from her wrist, looking down at the book in her lap. “After your lessons of course.”

“You’re a hard taskmaster, Swan.”

She _can_ look at him.

At least, she jerks her head, eyes wide. He hasn’t called her Swan since that first day. The name feels so distant. Like she’s wedged something between them.

Emma should be grateful. She should _want_ that space. A perfect excuse to avoid him and ignore her infatuation, but – his smile is soft.

“True. Henry, come on, let’s leave the Captain to his rest.”

Her legs feel stiff as she stands. She stretches her arms over her head, book in one hand, her other hand closed in a fist. The swan necklace sways as she does, dragging across her skin.

“G’night Captain,” Henry mumbles, heading towards the door.

“Good night and no mumbling,” Emma corrects gently.

It’s too late for snapping reprimands, and she just doesn’t have the heart for it. It feels like that’s left her anyway. Taking refuge somewhere out of reach.

“Good night, Henry,” Killian calls after him as Henry walks out the door. It closes quietly behind him.

Emma moves to follow in Henry’s footsteps. Killian doesn’t stop her, even when she gets to the door. It feels wrong. He always has the last word.

"Good night...Killian," she says.

He always has the last word, but she slips away before she can hear it.

The sound of snores and sleep grumbles alert her to the lateness of the night. She slips between men, back to her bunk. With a quick glance to make sure Henry is safely tucked in his, Emma kicks off her boots and settles down on the bed, legs curled up beneath her.

She starts to put her book in its usual spot, reflex motion, but pauses, the title glaring at her, challenging her. It no longer comforts her, just makes her think of a blue eyed boy, bleeding into the sea. There's a burn of salt in her eyes.

Opening the book to those very familiar pages, she starts to read. It feels wrong, looking at the words on the page. All wrong.

Emma scribbles and crosses out until the corrections gleam in dark blue ink.

_Killian Jones_ burned into the page.

Killian’s name burned on her tongue.

-

She doesn't catch more than a glimpse of him all day, which sits fine with her. It takes nothing more than a glimpse and the wisp of a smile to draw her back to the lamp lit cabin and his soft smile as he called her Swan.

The words she couldn't hear after she called him Killian.

She spends most of the time reminding Henry of how to hold himself, about controlling himself (a ridiculously hard lesson to teach a fourteen year old), and telling him as many stories as she can remember the details of. These are easy for him. Stories, fairy tales, facts and history that any royal would know – Henry takes to it all like a fish to water.

She finds him later, after she pauses to help Smee with a few of her normal tasks, in the forecastle with Victor, the textbook open before him, fingers running across the words on the page.

He takes to this, apparently, like a pirate doctor to drink. She watches as Victor starts to sip from his flask, but Henry says, "Fi-boo-la" and he forgets it in favor of correcting Henry's pronunciation. _Fibula_.

(Emma's too, but he'll never need to know that. Ever.)

"Hey, what are you boys up to?" she asks when Henry looks up and catches her staring. His smile is dimpled with cheery warmth.

"Reading this damn book." Victor answers. "Hey, Emmet, did you know that the liver actually _is_ important?"

He tosses his head back to look at her, Henry nodding in tune to Victor's quiet laughter.

"I had no idea, Doctor and I _never_ would have guessed. They do say that you learn something new every day."

"Henry is learning many new things. He even corrected my eating habits. I feel like I'm back at home."

Henry lifts his head from his book. "Where is home?"

Emma shakes her head. "Where is _your_ home, is usually how you would say it, but I suppose that does work. I'd usually say it’s more polite not to ask after a pirate's past, but Victor did open himself up to that." She steps towards the table and lays a hand on Victor's shoulder. It feels weird to be the one touching for once. She's become used to the slaps on the back and shoulder taps.

( _Accustomed_ to. At this rate, she'll have to be the one learning how to be a royal.)

"So, Victor, where is home?"

He tilts his head up to meet her eyes. She tries to convey with her look that he doesn't need to answer, but it seems everyone wants to share their secrets with her.

(What a secret keeper she’s becoming, of her secrets most of all.)

"A world away. One without color, only black and white darkness. I like the color of this world. Do you know how bland a grey apple tastes? And never mind liquor. Even being drunk isn't worth it."

He rolls his shoulders back.

Emma draws back and plops down on the seat beside him. The bench creaks beneath her, but the sound isn't loud enough to cover his cough.

"But sometimes I miss it. I had something going for me when I was there. Now what do I have?"

Emma slaps him on the back. Hard. "Cut the mourning crap. You've got us. Now, teach Henry how to read this damn book."

"You sound like the Captain. You can't both be wrong, I suppose. Come on, Henry. Back to the book. I'm going to make an assistant out of you, unless Emmet decides to change his mind?"

Emma slaps him again. "Not on your life."

"What life? I swear you just slapped it out of me."

Emma cocks her head at Henry. "This would make for a great ghost story, wouldn't it?"

Henry snorts, the sound carefully muffled by his hand. Proud, Emma grins. She'll make a royal of him yet.

-

They draw closer to Midas' kingdom and Emma grows more worried as time passes.

Her new "situation" may have drawn her attention away from reality for a bit, but here it is: she has a week and a half left of her planned and eventually agreed upon month, she has no idea how long this heist will take – a heist on her own family members – and she has no idea she is supposed to escape that and _this_.

Never mind the part of her that doesn't want to get away. Not including that a scary part of her wants to take them with her - Henry, Victor...Killian. Ignoring the part of her that wants to spill her guts and call off this whole heist altogether.

(What the fuck is she supposed to do?)

Emma's never been able to keep her worry to herself. It pours out of her in every slam of her hand on a table, every time she tears through a task, the way her nails claw at her own skin, fiddling with that damn bracelet.

Killian doesn't help but he sure as hell tries.

(Which doesn't help even more? Makes matters worse? Makes her want to tear her hair out?

So many choices.)

Emma can't get frustrated with Henry, it just doesn't happen, but everything around them feels her wrath. (Wrath? She’s not an angry god wreaking havoc on the poor mortals, although, she’s sure several crewmen would vehemently disagree). So, after a day of this, Killian casually steps in and offers to teach Henry the basics of swordplay.

Emma might actually be losing her mind, but at least this she doesn't have to worry about. Killian is as excellent a teacher as she is.

"Hold the blade like this," Killian says, stepping behind Henry to guide his hands. Watching the slow movements of their joined grip is soothing. It’s how her father taught her. How her mother taught her archery as well, though Emma will choose the blade over the bow every time. Still, it’s a calming memory and an even better sight.

She leans against the railing and watches, falling into a kind of spelled reverie brought on by the gentle breeze, Killian and Henry’s quiet voices, and the bustle of the crewmen around her.

Henry pauses, sword raised still a little too high before him. He'll need a more balanced blade. Shorter. Thinner. Emma sets this thought aside though when he turns worried eyes on her.

(The spell breaks.)

"Don't worry, kid, you're doing fine,” Emma assures. Him.

"I'm not going in there alone, right?"

Killian scoffs. Carefully, he lowers Henry's blade. "We can't have you carrying all that gold by yourself. No, Victor and I shall be accompanying you. As your guard and personal physician respectfully."

"But Victor is," Emma starts.

She mimes Victor guzzling down on his flask. Killian grins.

"He's detoxifying his system as we speak. By the time we reach the castle, he'll be more than sober. He may even look like a real doctor."

She wants to laugh, but she hesitates instead, another question preying on her mind.  "A party of three is too small for a royal entourage." To disguise the truth in her words, she screws her face up and adds, "Right? At least what I've read, four is the general ‘traveling in secret size.' Many more for a public appearance."

"You're correct as usual, Emmet. I wanted you to join us as well as Henry's personal tutor, but I’d yet to pose the question. It is your choice after all, so will you accompany us?"

She could say no. Stay back, disappear later, show up at her aunt's castle as Princess Emma, explain everything, and ease her pirate crew along without them realizing a thing.

(Of course, that's much too logical for her.)

"I'll go," she says.

Henry beams as bright as Killian himself. The sun catches on their heads, a halo of light.

It may be illogical, incredibly stupid, and certain to lead to disaster, but when they smile at her like that, it feels like someone's given them their blessing.

(She just prays it isn't Circe.)


	9. You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me

It isn't Circe. It's worse.

Which means, it of course starts off great. They make it to dock, Smee purchases the horses, Victor "detoxifies" (also known as throwing up the last of the alcohol in his system), and Killian secures a safe travel route and "secret" notice of the arrival of “Prince Henry of the far reaches of Oz.”

Although Henry paces the deck, throwing out a question every now and then (read: every ten seconds), Emma only finds herself amused by it all. He'll be fine, she's sure of that. Perhaps he's too earnest, too excitable, but -

He bounds across the deck and, in one scrambling motion, hops up on the barrel Emma’s leaning against. It vibrates as he taps his heels against it. "Hey, can you tell me Jasmine's story again?"

"The whole thing?" Emma asks, looking up at him. Hawke gave him a haircut and combed his hair with Emma’s comb and had the nerve to try to throw it in her face – like it even matters to her. (Jerk.) It looks neat but styled. Princely.

Even his chin has that royal tilt to it now.

Her chin’s doing it, too.

"Just the part where she discovers Aladdin isn't really a prince. I'm not going to make his mistakes,” Henry clarifies.

“That isn’t really what I would call a mistake. She loves him anyway. It’s a happy ending when she finds out the truth,” Emma says.

Henry jerks his head forward, that “royal tilt” lifting just a bit higher. He looks down his nose at her.

"This isn't a fairytale, Emmet. I don't want to get turned to gold. I'm too _young_ for that.”

Henry claps his mouth shut, eyes squeezing together in a wince.

Emma snickers. "Didn't you -"

"Shut up."

"I thought royals were more polite than that,” Emma says and gives him a gentle poke to his side.

"Please shut up,” he begs, eyes puppy wide.

"There you go!"

She rubs his shoulder. “Oh, come on, kid. It’s okay to be young. Fun, even. It gets harder when you’re my age.” She drops her gaze from him to blink away the sudden emotion. “You have responsibilities. Duties. People other than yourself to look after.”

“Who do _you_ look after?” Henry asks.

Certainly not herself. She’s too busy making a mess out of her life for that. In every moment she doesn’t spend pushing reality aside, she counts the seconds that slip by with increasing regret. On the one hand, she ran off for nearly a month – two weeks, four days – and abandoned her parents, her status and her people. On the other, she has a week and three days left before she abandons her crew, Victor, Henry, Killian. Hell, even Smee.

Emma can hear him berating someone now, his voice rising in pitch with every loud crash. That must be the food supplies. From the sound of his screams, it must be the flour. He did love Colonel Pain’s honey cakes.

She rolls back her shoulders and cracks her neck, pushing aside her melancholy to offer Henry a small smile.

Shaking him lightly she says, “Well, _you_ of course. Then, there’s Victor, he can’t take care of himself. Smee, and by proxy, the whole of the ship. And last, but not least, the Captain. He did tell you how I saved his life?”

Henry mumbles under his breath, an exasperated sigh parting his lips as he says, “You’ve told me. He’s told me. _Everyone’s_ told me.”

“Stop being so dramatic. You don’t even talk to everyone,” Emma says. Shrugging, she adds, “Besides, it isn’t as if they have anything better to talk about.”

“They have stories too, you know. Interesting ones!”

Emma’s smile fades again. Thinking of the book she’s avoided looking at since Killian’s confession, she flips her head back, looking for him to march up with one of his one-liners and say, “Aye, lad, and Emmet knows this to be true. Better than most, I might add.”

Perhaps, he’d wink and give her that soft smile.

(Perhaps she’d want that.)

Instead, she meets another crewmen’s eyes instead. Ethan, if she remembers correctly. He told her once about the land he came from, where people are far more adept at gun warfare than they are at swordplay. He’d asked her to teach him her technique. ‘Could come in handy since the magic here turns gunpowder to useless ash.’

She’d promised him another time.

One of the many promises she’d made lately. The Misthaven silk trade to House Cypher. Helping Henry. Visiting Princess Ariel with Ursula the next time she performs at Ariel and Eric’s castle. Helping Colonel Pain in the kitchen (and she’ll never know how she got roped into that one; Victor’s doing, somehow.)

Going back home.

(Wherever that is. Sometimes, lately, she isn’t so sure.)

“Maybe you can tell me them sometime.”

Henry pokes out his tongue. “Maybe I will.”

-

“Are we all set?”

Emma’s new outfit clings to her form, which isn’t a bad thing, but the look is worrisome. The spell hasn’t changed her face that much, just enough to look manlier and in this outfit – the tight pants, high boots, soft leather jacket with the embroidered sleeves and ornate belt tying it all together – Emma looks just like her father.

Hiding from family, lying to family, stealing from family, _stealing from family while looking like family_ – she just seems to be getting worse with every step she takes towards Midas’ castle.

“Emmet, are you ready?”

(No.)

She makes a noncommittal noise and hops up on her horse for this journey. Victor’s in the (undoubtedly stolen and repainted) carriage with Henry and their bags and she and Killian are to ride beside them, watching for danger and mapping out their path. They’d rounded out their party with Hawke, who’s to be the driver, personal servant, “anything” man to Henry.

Hawke glares at her.

"Don't screw this up for us this time," he warns.

Emma's a little too on edge for snarky comebacks. She wavers for a second, and then quietly says, "I'll try not to.”

He turns away and looks to Killian. Emma tries not to do the same. She's stared at him enough this morning to last a lifetime - and draw a cheeky grin and a comment from him.

"Do you think this tunic brings out the color in my eyes?"

(It certainly brings out the color in her cheeks.)

His outfit is almost a match to Emma's, but where hers is a deep maroon, Killian's is a steel grey.

(And yes, it does bring out the blue in his eyes.)

"We're set, ain't we?"

"Aren't," Henry corrects from inside the carriage. Victor's raucous laughter is muffled by the covered frame.

"We're set," Killian says.

Hawke starts the carriage rolling down the narrow street. It's been awhile since Emma's had a horse beneath her. It takes her a moment to get comfortable enough to start riding.

When she does, Killian gets into step beside her. Her edginess kicks up a notch.

"You've been very quiet all morning."

Emma nods, _quiet_ acknowledgment.

"Are you nervous?"

She glances at him. He's staring, studying. When she catches his eye, he grins.

"This is no worse than a sea serpent. Or a whirlpool with teeth."

Emma ducks her head. He'd remembered.

"It's no delivery through the Underworld, for sure," she finishes.

He chuckles. "The worst that can happen is that we get captured and executed for out attempt, leaving poor Henry all alone in the world."

"So, are you telling me to look on the bright side?"

"I was just listing a highly possible outcome," Killian says.

He trots a little ahead of her, out of reach. A smart move. Her hand had come inches from jabbing him in the arm.

Killian tosses his head back to look at her. "Keep up, Emmet."

She slows down a beat. This heist is no worse than the serpentine desire coiling around her sense, crushing it with every smile he gives her.

The worst that can happen isn't that they're caught. The worst that can happen is that _she’s_ caught - worse than she already is by this desire, by Henry's excitement and Victor's curses about the "wonders of sobriety." Caught like the rats Smee's been laying traps for the past day. Caught by the smell of the sea and the cologne that cloaks her skin - "One of my few indulgences," Killian told her as she'd exited the tavern, post her own indulgently long bath.

"Few?" she'd teased, taking the little bottle out of his hands.

It rests inside her satchel now, cushioned within her gloves.

The worst that can happen is that she's caught with no wish to be free.

"I'm fine back here," she says.

Killian starts to lift a beckoning hand. Emma looks away, towards the buildings they pass. When she deems it safe to look back, the street has widened enough that Killian can ride beside the carriage. Their voices carry, but Emma can't make out the words.

It’s easy to let the buzz of voices choke out her own thoughts, but that only takes her so far – through a ride along a side road to Midas' castle, the scenic route as her father likes to call it. “The horrible route,” Princess Kathryn would say as she and Frederick took the main road instead.

The quiet dinner is almost unbearable. Henry's nervous energy translates into a tortuous silence that falls over them all, only interrupted by the clanking of cups and the crackle of the fire.

Desperate to escape the quiet, Emma sleeps early, curled up beside the carriage with her sword at her side. She doesn’t know whether she dreams, but when she awakes, sweat drenches her skin and her breaths are heavy and painfully strangled.

She pushes sweaty strands of hair from her forehead and tucks them back underneath her cap. Sitting up on her bed of cloth, she stretches out sleep weakened muscles before bringing her knees up to her chest so she can rest her chin on them and get a good view of the dying embers of their campfire. Little flickers of ash lift into the air and blow away on the light wind.

What should be a calming sight sets Emma’s teeth on edge instead. Her skin pebbles with goosebumps, not the kind born of the touch of a warm hand on her arm, but the kind that sends chills up her spine, nails scraping metal.

Henry’s snores echo off the trees.

Emma jumps to her feet. She can’t sit here any longer.

She can’t _stay_ here any longer, because as she stares into the fire, she thinks of the fireplace in her room. Of sitting at the edge of her bed, knees pressed to her chest, chin atop them and watching them die as she thinks of far off places instead – worlds beyond her own, people she’s never met and who don’t know who she really is, where she can blend in and become just _Emma_ the adventurer. Emma who battles evil creatures and uses magical potions, who meets gods and goddesses and witches and wizards and _people_.

Emma who can surround herself in the trees of an unknown forest and call it home.

Emma who’d imagined this all so differently. That she’d be _happy_ to do all these things.

The happiness, she’d predicted that correctly. But the confusion, the longing, the sadness, and the moment where she would have to stop imagining and face reality – it had all slipped her mind.

It claws at her. Nails scraping metal. Nails scraping her spine.

Emma moves through the trees, too swift to be quiet. Henry’s snores cover up her heavy footfalls, but it isn’t like it matters. She’s running to nowhere anyway, would it be so bad if someone caught her and brought her back?

She runs faster at the thought, without seeing, trying not to think. Crashing through the forest, Emma slip over leaves, ripping them from the trees as she hits low hanging limbs. She barely even feels the sting.

But she does feel it when she trips over a fallen limb and crashes to the ground. It’s pain, blooming hot in her knees and in the hand she threw out before her.

“Fucking,” she says. Her hand is slicking with blood, and her face is wet with tears.

She feels like an idiot, but it’s no worse than how she feels when she looks up to see a frog staring at her with big yellow sun bright eyes.

(That fucking sun falling on Killian and Henry’s heads. Shining brilliance on their smiles.)

It croaks and she waves it away. The stupid frog doesn’t deserve her anger.

“Hey,” it speaks and Emma throws a punch. Whatever the hell this is deserves her anger and more.

“Please, don’t. This is a very fragile body I’m in, and I’ve already nearly been eaten twice today. I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

Emma swings again, tries to crawl a bit closer but dirt stings in her wounds and her knee is tender. It pulls painfully when she tries to drag it.

She falls back on her haunches, rubbing at the pain in her knee. She needs to be methodical about this. Staunch the blood flow, ease the pain in her knee and then deal with the damn talking frog.

“Are you seriously ignoring me now? Do you know who I am?”

The damn _impatient_ talking frog.

“I really do not care.”

She emphasizes this with a groan, brought on by the burn of the alcohol from her flask (gifted to her by Smee of all people; he was one of the few pirates she’d never seen take a drink.) It hurts enough to make her grind her teeth, but at least her wound will be okay. As for the rest of her…Furiously, she adds, “I barely know who I am anymore. I could damn well be hallucinating and having this conversation with myself at this point.”

Emma groans again while tearing at the sleeve of her shirt with her teeth and uninjured hand. The cotton gives way easily, which is great because the frog is hopping closer to her, so she needs to get through this quickly.

“I know who you are,” the frog says. The voice sounds distinctly male now. Less _froggy_. It’s an improvement on the croaking tone.

“Tell me,” Emma says. Struggling to tie the torn scrap tightly enough, she doesn’t have the energy to swing at the frog even though it’s finally in reach.

“A woman. A _virgin_.”

Emma turns her head to stare at the frog. The scrap of fabric falls away from her hand and into her lap.

“What the fucking fuck?” is what her expression says. Her mouth too.

The frog sighs. Emma readjusts her views of birds. It isn’t creepy when they sigh because if it was, what word would she have to describe this? The frog swells up like it’s about to “ribbit, ribbit” but letting out a bubble of air instead. A gross wet bubble that pops right above the frog’s head.

“Let me explain.”

“Please do, so I can strangle you in peace,” Emma says.

“I’m not really a frog,” _the frog_ says.

“Really now?”

“Explanations would be much easier if you let me give them. You are a handful, aren’t you, Princess Emma?”

Well, there you go. Explanation given. _Magic_ as per fucking usual.

(She’s spitting out curses like she can actually cast them.)

“And you’re what? A god? The god of frogs? Amphibious creatures? Rude, creepy, yellow eyed demons in disguise?”

She narrows her eyes at the frog. It sighs again, another wet air bubble popping in front of it. It’s absolutely disgusting.

“Good guesses, which I suppose makes it easy for you to believe this when I say that I’m Apollo.”

“The sun god.”

Well that explains the eyes.

(The sunlight on Killian and Henry’s hair. Blessing? More like a curse.)

“What do you want from me?” Emma asks because all her guesses are worse than the last. She isn’t going to be another Leda, Tyro, or Pasiphae. This is _not_ going to be her story.

“Nothing like what you’re thinking, probably. Yes, I know that ‘Virgin’ line makes me sound as perverted as my…”

Apollo the frog (she’s sticking with this name) looks to the sky. It’s just dark overhead, but Emma can make out the start of a storm, clouds greying, blocking out even the tiniest of light from the moon. The air pressure shifts. Emma actually finds herself sympathetic when he croaks.

“… _more interesting_ family members, but I’ve been cursed and you, _a virgin_ , are the only one that can help me.”

There are only a handful of Grecian gods that virginity would matter to. Athena, Artemis, Hestia. More, maybe, but if this is really Apollo (and not some great cosmic joke of a talking frog, or worse Emma really, actually, totally losing her mind) then those are the only three that really matter. Discarding Hestia as vengefulness isn’t a trait that Emma’s ever associated with her, Emma asks, “Artemis or Athena?”

“My twin becomes _very_ upset when I woo her charges.”

(Makes sense.)

“So, you _are_ a pervert.”

Apollo the frog scoffs. More spit bubbles. Of _course_.

“I love very easily,” he explains.

“I’m sure there are easier ways to love than seducing your sister’s charges. Ways less likely to get you cursed.”

“You wouldn’t know, would you, Emma?”

He must be a frog of the venomous kind.

“I don’t need a practical to know that,” she says.

There’s heat in her face, but at least she can say it’s because of the growing pain and not Apollo’s words. She picks up the piece of fabric in her lap and reattempts covering the slash in her palm.

“Can you just explain what I have to do so you’ll leave me alone? Also, I’m not doing this for free.”

At least Apollo the frog can’t cross its arms. “You expect me to pay you?”

“Or I can leave you here as a frog. Or step on you. Your choice. Chances are, I won’t catch the wrath of the gods if I crush you. I already have Fortuna against me. What could be worse than that?”

“Frog underneath your boot?"

Emma laughs.

"What would you want from me in exchange?” Apollo the frog asks.

She doesn’t have to think about this one. “A favor. Any kind of favor.”

“That could be _anything_ ,” he whines. It’s croaky.

“That’s why I said ‘any’.”

He’s quiet for so long that Emma uses the moment to tie the knot and tighten it with her teeth. It should stop the blood flow. Her knee however might be hard to stand on.

Plus, there’s the problem of finding her campsite again.

On top of that, the problems that drove her into the woods to begin with. She could cry again, but there’s a frog staring at her. Not the most appropriate of situations for tears.

“Any favor, you have it. So, in order to be rid of my curse, you have to become my champion and defeat my sister in a contest of skill. She’ll only listen to someone who can defeat her, and that someone has to be a virgin because she doesn’t think anyone else is worth her time. The taint of men, she calls it.”

Emma can’t see herself but still she laughs. The taint of men? Even without this bracelet, she carries the taint of men. Killian's gifted cologne clings to her skin.

“The taint of men. Really?”

“Freedom. Independence. She likes a woman who can hold her own against the ‘trials that men would force on womankind.’”

“Like this?”

Apollo the Frog croaks loudly in protest. Emma waves him away.

“I have several questions,” she asks, considering his information. “What kind of skill? Where would I even find her? What happens if she wins?”

Yellow eyes still glowing with anger, Apollo says, tone clipped, “I’m not sure, you’ll have to ask her. She didn’t quite give me a chance for questions when she banished me from her valley, which is where you should find her. It’s only about an hour’s walk – or limp, in your case, from here.”

Emma ignores the limp comment. “You didn’t answer my last question.”

“I’m really not sure. Her moods can be rather…”

He croaks.

(Get the hint, Emma? You could be a frog if you play your cards wrong.

Or right. Frogs don’t have to deal with any of life’s problems.)

“Oh, just point me in the right direction."

The frog hops to the left in what Emma is mostly certain is a southerly direction. In the distance, she can see one of the sloping mountains, snow peaked and so very far away.

"An _hour's_ walk?"

"Or so," Apollo the Frog says.

His eyes glow a path through the forest.  A very long path. Cursing loudly, she limps over the glowing light.

(The things she does to avoid her problems, eh?)

-

A walk as long as hers should've been great for self-reflection and clearing her head, but it starts to rain only ten minutes into it and her leg becomes even heavier to drag, squelching deep into the mud with every step. She has to keep wrenching it out and the pain is constant, beating away any attempts at clear thought.

Instead, the walk gives her time to regret even more. To list every transgression and act of cruelty. That time she left Grumpy asleep in his plate of grits at the tavern comes to mind more than once. It was the same day of her first kiss – an act of self-cruelty; his breath smelled awful and he was a very wet kisser. She barely gets through the horrors of her eighteenth year by the time she reaches the mountain's base and steps into the Valley of the Goddess.

There are quite a few mountains and their valleys within sight, but only one with a marble temple hugging the base of the mountain. Emma's head may be fogged with worry, anger, and pain, but it doesn't take a clear mind to know her next step.

Nor does it take one for her to _not_ take that next step.

All that takes is a healthy sense of self-preservation, which Emma has found in the course of a second glance at the hound pulled chariot and the chariot’s equally snarling rider.

"Fine evening, Artemis," Emma comments.

It's only logical to be polite to the deity with their bow and arrow trained on you.

"It is indeed. The rain hides the scent of my quarries well."

The Goddess pauses and Emma turns slowly to face her. She's beautiful, her long black hair flowing behind her in the light, post-rain breeze. Her brown skin radiates moonlight, and her brown eyes sparkle. When she blinks, Emma catches the hint of silver light. Star light.

What an attractive family they make, the gorgeous goddess and the ugly frog.

"The hunt is more difficult in the rain," Artemis adds.

(More difficult, not impossible.)

Emma eyes the hounds and doesn't move.

"Why have you come here cloaked in the skin of a man? Has my brother gone mad already?"

Emma shrugs. " _That_ is unrelated to your brother. I had a run in with Circe, she turned my friends into piglets, and we made a deal because - it’s a long story. Now, I don't mean to be rude but I have walked a hell of a long way on this busted knee to challenge you to a contest of skill."

Emma straightens her back, squares her shoulders and draws her eyes away from the hounds to the cold light of Artemis' brown ones.

"So...uh, gauntlet thrown."

Artemis jumps down from her chariot, the ground shaking underneath her heavy feet. She walks past Emma, so Emma limps after her as quickly as her injured knee will allow.

“You do not believe that you can beat me in any kind of contest, skilled or otherwise," Artemis announces when they pass the copse of trees before the temple.

Closer, Emma can see that it has words etched outside it, but she can't understand them. Her Greek never has been very good.

“That was a statement, not a question,” Emma says.

Artemis does not shrug or scoff. She’s much “godlier” than her brother, which isn’t hard to be when he’s a frog, so she resists the trappings of sarcasm when she says, “It is a fact.”

The valley echoes her statement. Emma’s unoffended. It _is_ a fact. As observable as certain others she probably shouldn’t think about while stuck in a valley with a Goddess who turned her brother into a frog for his romantic intrigue.

(Killian would probably find this hilarious.)

“So, why are you here?” Artemis asks.

Her tone isn’t attacking, but Emma crosses her arms anyway. “What was I supposed to do? Say no?"

"Yes.”

(As simple as that.)

“He has few powers in his cursed state. Hecate knows her art well. Certainly, he could not have harmed you. Not with my protection on you."

"The protection of virginity?"

Emma's mouth twitches in a laugh.

"Yes."

Artemis' straight faced answer kills the desire. Emma jerks her hand to her still covered hair. Somehow the cap she'd bought to match her outfit and cover her growing hair had remained on her head even through the fall. A stroke of luck, minor though it is. Usually, Emma takes all the luck she can get.

However, skill is what she needs now, and Emma's all out of that, it seems. Her hands shake from the cold rain. Her knee twitches. She can barely stand let alone take on a god, and she has come to terms with this fact: all they've done is take her on from the very beginning.

She must be some kind of beacon, drawing all the gods in.

(Come one, come all. Take your shot at the Princess of Misthaven!)

"Do you have something to prove, Emma?" Artemis asks.

(Probably.)

"Not a thing.”

"So what reasons would you have to agree to help my brother? Certainly not kindness."

( _I’m_ kind.)

"Pity? No. Annoyance? Perhaps."

Emma could be somewhere else entirely for all that these questions are directed at her. She'd _like_ to be somewhere else entirely.

"Why would you say yes?"

She pauses to actually think about her answer. The truth hits her almost as hard she hit the ground.

"It was better than saying no."

Saying no would've meant walking back to camp, bleeding, with tear tracks down her face and confusion running hot in her veins. No would've meant explanations she could not give and truths she dared not share.

Yes meant facing down a possibly unfriendly god, but least Emma knows where she stands with them.

Beneath them.

Which, come to think of it, is seeming less and less like the better choice.

A high pitched whining reaches them both at the same time. Emma searches out the source while Artemis begins to walk across the grass towards the temple. At the doorway of the temple, a little girl stands, blanket in hand and tears in her eyes. She takes one step down the stairs and trips. A flash of silver light later and Artemis catches the girl in her arms. She cries even harder, sobs that pull at Emma’s heart.

(I’m with you there, kid.)

“I can’t sleep,” she whines.

“But you must, Akiko,” Artemis says.

She has the weary tone of someone who’s repeated their words many times before. Artemis' smile is kind, but her forehead is lined with frustration.

This must be an every night occurrence.

Akiko rubs at her eyes and when she pulls back her hands, she looks at Emma, fear in her eyes. She turns to Artemis in what she must think is a whisper and says, “I’m too scared to sleep.”

“Nothing here can harm you,” Artemis says with a wave of her hand.

(Yeah, that _always_ works.)

“I can’t sleep.”

Akiko sniffles, blinking rapidly. She’ll start crying again any second and Artemis is just staring at her.

You can’t stare a kid’s fears away, but you can distract them, so Emma walks over to the pair. Despite the pain in her knees and the way Akiko squirms away from her, she kneels down next to them.

“You can’t sleep? Neither could Scheherazade.”

Akiko sniffles again, tears brimming in her eyes, but she moves just a little in Artemis’ embrace. Clutching her blanket tight, she asks, “Why not?”

Emma plops down on the step beside her. “Because every night she had to tell a story to the King.”

She slits her eyes at Emma. “A story?”

“ _Many_ stories.”

“Why?”

Emma opens her mouth and shuts it fast. Akiko can’t be more than seven. Execution because of marital infidelity probably isn’t a story that’ll ease her nightmares.

Carefully, Emma says, “Well, because once upon a time the King had a beautiful wife. He loved her very much, but she betrayed him. Broken-hearted, the King… _banished_ her. He wanted to forget her so every day he searched out a new woman to be his wife, and every day he would find one and marry her. However, by the next morning he would find something wrong with this new wife and he would banish her too.”

“Every day?” the girl asks.

(What the fuck, right?)

She looks to Artemis for confirmation. The goddess, proving just as useless as before, just stares at Emma. _Go on_ , she seems to say with her narrowed eyes.

“Every day,” Emma answers, drawing Akiko’s eyes back to her.

“But where did they all go?”

(A mass grave?)

“Far, far away. The King’s Vizier had the duty of finding the King a new bride, but because the King had banished so many, the only women left in the Kingdom were married women. As the king could not marry them, the Vizier despaired because he knew when he told his King he would be banished as well, and his two daughters would be left alone.”

“But what about -”

Emma raises a finger to stop the question.

“ _But_ the Vizier’s daughter Scheherazade did not want her father to be punished. As she was not married, the next morning, she presented herself to the king as his new wife.”

Akiko crawls out of Artemis’ arms and leans over the goddess’ knee to look at Emma. Her eyes shine, but not with tears.

Starlight in her brown eyes, just as bright as light in the Goddess'.

“The King was unimpressed by Scheherazade.”

“The King was stupid,” Akiko says.

Emma laughs. “Agreed, but still he was the King, so Scheherazade could not tell him that he was an idiot. She knew she would have to think of something clever to please him so that she would not be sent away from her father and sister. She did not have the power of Artemis to put him in his place.” Emma looks to Artemis and with a wink she says, “She was a poor hunter and she could barely even string a bow and arrow. But, she did have another power.”

Winking at Akiko, she waits for the inevitable.

“Stories!” the girl cries, bouncing in Artemis’ lap.

“Yes! She had read every history, every great tale. She collected a thousand books and she knew their stories all by heart. So, when night came and the King told her, ‘I will banish you tomorrow and find a better wife,’ she said, ‘I understand, my King. But if you will allow me one request, I would like to bid farewell to my sister, Dunyazade.”

Emma waves her hand. Akiko waves back.

“The king thought this over. Yes, he would banish Scheherazade, but he was not so cruel as to deny her simple request. So, he had Dunyazade brought to their chambers so Scheherazade might say goodbye. Dunyazade loved Scheherazade’s stories, so she asked her to tell her one last story. Cleverly, Scheherazade started her story.”

She takes a moment to breathe. Akiko inches a bit closer, bouncing Henry-like in her excitement.

“At first, they sat on the floor at the foot of the King’s bed. Scheherazade began her tale, ‘Princess Jasmine did not want to get married,’ and as she told of Jasmine’s escape from her palace, she jumped up and pretended that she herself was sneaking around corners and watching for guards.”

Emma stands up, looking around the valley. A bird takes off from one of the trees and starts a path towards them, so Emma moves up the stairs, ducking behind one of the pillars until she can hear its caws pass overhead.

The whole time, Akiko watches her. Already half out of Artemis’ lap, her blanket abandoned in Artemis’ arms, Akiko makes it easy for Emma to grab her hand, and say, “Scheherazade pulled Dunyazade to her feet.”

Akiko giggles. Emma presses her finger to her lips and quietly says, “Her little sister laughed, but Scheherazade shushed her. ‘The guards will hear you,’ she said and pointed to where the King had sat up in his bed, watching the girls moving around the room.”

Emma points at Artemis.

She doesn’t move, so Emma repeats. “The king sat up in his bed, watching the girls move around the room.”

Artemis moves a little towards them. _Finally_.

“Dunyazade took this very seriously, so she quieted and together, her and her sister, tiptoed around the room, pretending to climb down ladders and run out the palace gates.”

Emma has no plans to start running, but Akiko tugs at her hand, pointing towards the trees. It hurts, but it isn’t a far run and well, she was the one to start this, she might as well finish it.

Even if her knee might never fully recover.

Half behind a tree, they peer out at Artemis. One of her hounds bays and Emma jumps, but Akiko places a hand on her leg and says very seriously, “It’s just Kane. He _always_ cries when his hunt is interrupted.”

(…Yeah.)

“The whole time, the King watched. Scheherazade continued her story, her and Dunyazade walking in circles around the large room as she said, ‘Jasmine made it out of the castle without trouble, but it wasn’t long before she found herself hopelessly lost in the City. She was dizzied by the streets filled with people and the buildings that stood nearly as high as the palace that she could no longer see, so dizzied that she did not look where she was going and bumped right into a boy who was running down the street.’ For this part she beckoned the King to her. Curious, he joined Scheherazade and her sister.”

Emma waves her hand at Artemis who bounds over to them with all the grace that Emma does not feel right now.

“Scheherazade took the King’s hand.”

Emma grabs Artemis’, mentally prepping herself for the next part. (You brought this on yourself.)

“The King looked into her eyes and as she said, ‘Jasmine and the boy crashed to the ground,’ he was the one to pull them both to the floor.”

She winces before she even hits the ground. Pain radiates in her body and not even Akiko’s laughter eases it. Emma takes a moment to breathe out the pain, looking up at brightening sky.

(Thank the Gods.)

Akiko yawns and Emma looks at Artemis who smiles at her even as she scrapes dirt from her legs.

( _Thank the Gods._ )

“Scheherazade was nearly unable to finish her story, but the King smiled at her as he helped to her feet, so she smiled back and said, ‘The boy was quick to help Jasmine to her feet. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said in a rush. ‘But I have to run.’ They both jumped up at shouts of guards and looked at each other with wide eyes.”

Artemis lifts Emma so high off the ground that she nearly falls again. The goddess’ grip is too tight for that so Emma merely hovers, only the tips of her toes touching the ground. Not the most comfortable position for storytelling.

“The guards!” Akiko says on an even louder yawn.

“That’s what Dunyazade said, pointing to the open terrace of the King’s bed chamber. Outside, the sun was rising and Scheherazade knew what that meant. Her time was almost up. So, cleverly, she said, ‘The boy started to run past Jasmine but she grabbed his hand and begged him, ‘Take me with you!’ So, the boy did and that is how Jasmine met Aladdin.’ Scheherazade did not take the King’s hand and run, looking to the rising sun as her sister did. Instead, she took her sister’s hand.”

Emma pulls out of Artemis’ grip, dropping to the ground. Akiko slips her hand into hers, looking at Emma eagerly.

“Without looking at the king, she said, ‘Their story does not end there, but our night has and it is time for me to do as the King decreed and leave you. I am sorry that I must leave this story unfinished.”

Emma opens her mouth to finish, but Artemis places a hand on her shoulder, and says, “The King may have been foolish and cruel, but he was just as eager as Dunyazade to hear the rest of the story, so he said, ‘I have reconsidered. For one night more, you may stay so that you can finish the story for your sister and bid her a proper farewell.’”

Emma winks at Akiko. “Scheherazade knew she had won, at least for one night so she grinned at her sister and said, ‘Then tonight I shall finish the story.’ But for now, you must sleep.”

Akiko goes easily when Artemis lifts her off the ground. She rubs at her eyes and asks, “Will you tell me the rest of the story tomorrow?”

Emma winces. “I won’t be able to, but Artemis knows the rest, I’m sure.”

“Of course, I do,” she huffs. Carrying Akiko back to the temple, she says, “And I will tell you tomorrow, after you have slept.”

Emma’s leg gives out on her the moment Akiko and Artemis disappear inside. Sitting on the ground, she stares up at the morning sun.

They’ll be sure to have noticed her absence by now. Her stomach churns at the thought of them looking for her – thinking her dead or kidnapped or, worse, that she ran away of her own volition.

Which, yeah, she did, but it was unplanned. Ignoring that everything she does is unplanned and that her reality hasn’t changed in the slightest, all she wants now is to get back to it. This whole godly excursion has put her it into perspective.

Running away from your problems only makes them worse.

(Honestly, she’s going to add that in big bolded letters to the ‘Things You Can Only Learn from Suffering’ list. Draw a star next to it. Get it tattooed on her hand so she never forgets.)

Sure, she’ll have some decisions to make and very soon, but she’d rather be there right now than where she is right now. Soaking wet, bloodied, and growing hungry.

“It’s time for you to leave.”

(At least, Artemis is of the same mind.)

“I would if I could move.”

The greatest thing about gods is their godly powers. It burns as Emma’s hand knits itself back together and the healing of her knee hurts enough to make her nearly bite her tongue, but it only takes a minute before she is able to stand and actually look Artemis in the eyes.

“Fortuna hasn’t abandoned you after all,” Artemis says.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Do you listen in on all your brother’s conversations?”

“Just the ones where he tries to convince a girl to do something she shouldn’t.”

(Protector of young girls, right.)

Artemis pauses, face screwed up in agitation. With a heavy sigh, she says, “I suppose you have…won this contest.”

(Humble.)

Emma doesn’t really consider helping a scared kid get to sleep a contest, but she’ll take it. Acting demur and arguing the point is what a princess would do. Emma still has a week and two days left of being a pirate, so she cocks her head to the side and says, “Not that this hasn’t been an enjoyable experience, but I should get going?”

She looks at Artemis from underneath her eyelashes, pouting ever so slightly.

“My brother is waiting on you,” Artemis says. “And the hunt waits for no one. Come.”

Emma takes the extended hand. She lurches to the side when Artemis sprints and it’s a good thing she hasn’t eaten in hours because she heaves her insides up at least three times in the three seconds that it takes for Artemis to make the journey that it took Emma _hours in the pouring rain_ to make.

(She’s not bitter, but her mouth tastes it.)

“You’re amazing,” Emma hears right before she’s smothered in the longest, most uncomfortable hug she has ever had to experience.

“I can be more amazing if you stop crushing my body,” Emma hisses.

(How was this better again?)

“I owe you a favor, don’t I?” Apollo, the not frog but actually rather attractive young god says.

(That’s why.)

He smiles, all ‘I know I’m gorgeous’ and Emma rolls her eyes to the sky. Not at him but at herself when fact number four comes rushing back in all its ‘Killian has a better smile’ glory.

“Yes, and one day, I shall call on that favor, but for now, I wish you and your sister the best.”

His sister, who disappeared halfway through their hug with a cry Emma hopes to never hear again. She may be unlucky, but at least she isn’t being hunted by Artemis.

“ _Virgins_ ,” Apollo snaps and disappears in a shaft of golden light.

“ _Gods_ ,” Emma snaps right back.

“Emmet!” Hawke shouts.

She jumps. Twitches her head to the side to see Hawke running toward her.

“Good morning?” she offers as he glares at her.

“Didn’t I tell you not to fuck this up? We’ve been looking for you for hours and I missed my damn breakfast. Why are you covered in blood?”

He gives her a sideways look. “You aren’t a werewolf, are you?”

“Yes, because I turned into a wolf at the full moon and tore the ship apart,” Emma says.

“Good to know that you’re fine, then,” Hawke says brightly.

Grabbing her by the arm, he marches back to camp, whistling a tune that sounds remarkably like one of those tavern anthems about wayward sailors getting what they deserve.

( _Jerk._ )

“Emmet, where the hell did you run off to?”

She’s never heard his voice sound like that before. Emma counts a few breaths and turns very slowly.

His expression reminds Emma at once of the storm they passed through on the way to Ursula’s island. He barely glances at Hawke as he says, “He ruined his outfit. Blood all over it.”

Instead he takes slow steps over to her. Emma might as well be caught in Artemis’ hunt. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin when his steps finally lead him to her. He stands over her, darkened eyes drawing over her messy blood and mud covered form. Maybe she should’ve used her favor for this for how angry Killian looks when his eyes travel back up to hers.

“I’m fine,” she says. “The blood will wash away.”

“Why the bloody hell did you leave the camp?” he snaps.

His eyes move over hers, trying to read her. She has to bite down her answering defensiveness when she says, “Perhaps, it’s a story best left to after we get back on the road. I’m sorry to have held us up any longer.”

She waits for him to move back. He doesn’t.

“Captain, Henry’s probably ready to move.”

“Don’t use the boy to get out of explaining yourself."

He's furious. Even understanding that she's technically the one in the wrong, his anger draws her own out. No one has ever talked to her like this and the Princess in her balks at the nerve.

“I’m not, Captain. I’m trying to defuse a heated situation because it isn’t helpful to our mutual cause, is it?”

His eyes slit. She glares back at him, fingers itching at her sides.

“No it isn't, but neither is your disappearing at will. Who knows what you could be doing?”

On a whisper, she asks, "You don't trust me?"

His expression doesn’t change. There’s no apology in his gaze, just…distrust.

(Well, that hurts.)

"Fine, you don't trust me. Now, can we get moving?"

She turns away from him. Killian grabs her by the arm and as she's about to do something stupid like demand that the pirate, whose life she saved more than once, who told her to call him by his first name, who grinned at her and who she regretted wanting to leave - as she's about to demand that the pirate who doesn't trust her let her go, Henry's head pops out of the carriage window.

"Emmet you're back! We were really worried. The Captain searched everywhere for you."

Emma pulls out of Killian's loosened grip and jogs over to Henry. "That was kind of him, but it wasn't as if he'd find me. To be quite honest, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm certain I wouldn't have been able to find me. Artemis' valley probably isn't that easy to get to."

"Artemis? The Goddess?"

Emma smiles at his enthusiasm. It eases her hurt a bit, just a bit. "Let me gather my stuff and I'll tell you all about it."

"Alright!"

Victor joins Henry in leaning out the window. “You’re not injured, are you?”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s good, but you should clean the blood out before it stains. You have no idea how hard it is to get a blood stain out of leather.”

“You’re going to have to be 100% less creepy at the Castle. You sound homicidal,” Emma says.

“Perhaps I am.”

Victor gives his patented creep look, but only for a moment before Henry drags him back inside the carriage with a chastising worthy of Emma’s mother.

Emma steps away. She preps herself for facing Killian again, a (failed) attempt to calm her stupidly hurting heart, but when she turns he has disappeared.

Hawke lingers by the horses.

“I’ll be by the river if the Captain returns. I won’t take long.”

She dashes to her horse and digs through her satchel for the bar soap she stole from the tavern. Her fingers brush her gloves and knock against the glass bottle protected within. Emma has the sudden urge to toss it.

Leaving her gloves behind, she walks through the forest this time. She doesn’t need another encounter with the forest floor. Once was quite enough.

The trickle of the river grows louder and then it’s before her.

So is Killian, kneeling beside the river with water sluicing over his hands, hair wet and dripping down the back of his neck.

(Artemis wasn’t wrong. Fortuna hasn’t abandoned Emma. How would she be able to torture Emma if she simply left her alone?)

Steadfastly ignoring him, she marches up to the edge and shirks her jacket. Save for a few droplets on her knees, most of the blood stains the sleeves of her jacket. Soap in hand, she starts to scrub.

The rush of the river makes everything around her seem quieter, drowned out by the sound. Even her thoughts seem a little bit quieter.

Which is good because they all seem to be screaming, “Say something!”

(Something can mean anything – and right now, anything can mean, ‘Why the hell did I waste my time thinking about _you_?’)

Emma likes the quiet of the river. It’s calming. Total relaxation.

"I should apologize."

Emma jumps, the soap slipping in her hand. Without looking up at him, she says, "It's not a problem, Captain."

(It is, but she can ignore that.)

"Emmet, I apologize for my callous behavior. I let my worry bring out the worst in me.”

She scrubs harder at her jacket.

"Apology accepted, Captain."

He clears his throat loudly. The blood on her sleeve is refusing to come out. She tries to rub at it gently with her nails, but ends up scraping the leather instead.

"Emmet."

"Captain."

"Killian."

It's such a stupid callback. She laughs.

"Sorry," he says again.

"Like I said, apology accepted."

(She might actually mean that this time.)

She drops her jacket to her lap and looks up at Killian.

“Did you dunk your head in the river?”

He shakes out the water in his hair, raining it down on the ground, his shoulders – on her.

“I’m sure you wanted to do worse when I was making an ass of myself.”

Emma grunts. She actually hadn’t entertained the thought, too busy being upset at herself for being upset by his distrust.

Speak of the devil…

“I do trust you, Emmet,” he says, seating himself down beside her.

“You don't have to...you barely know me," Emma says.

"Open book," he says, touching a hand to hers. "For one, I know that you aren't skilled when it comes to laundering."

Grabbing the jacket out of her lap, he does something with the soap that Emma can't see. Granted, she's focused on the way this one droplet falls down behind his weirdly pointy ears and the lift to the corner of his mouth, not what he's doing with her jacket. When he hands it back to her, the bloodstain on her sleeve is gone.

"And for another, I know that you were mere seconds away from hitting me earlier."

"No," she protests. Weakly.

He smirks. "Your hands twitch when you're upset. And you always have that focused look right before you punch Victor."

Reaching out, he presses his fingers to her forehead. Emma flinches but his fingers stay. Forcing herself to focus on her breathing instead of the contrast of the warmth of his hand and the cold of his rings, she says, "Killian?"

She could clap a hand to her face in embarrassment if he wasn't right there, smiling at the soft, curious way she said his name, like her breathlessness is endearing.

(He'll have to be Captain from now on.)

"Your forehead will tighten, right there in the center. A bit like its doing now, but your eyes are usually a little more pinched."

He brings his fingers down her forehead to the corners of her eyes. To illustrate his point or more likely, with the way his mouth twists upwards, to make her twitch more.

"And when you're just about to injure, you'll puff out your cheeks."

He touches there too. Emma puffs them out - maybe if she tries threatening, he'll stop.

"Yes, just like that, Emmet. And look, your mouth is just as pursed."

His hand trails lower and Emma doesn't hit him...intentionally. She merely drags herself away from his very dangerous touch and says, "Well, its a good thing that I am such an open book. You never have to worry about me stabbing you in the back because its written all over my face."

"You'd make a poor traitor," Killian agrees. "After all you've done for me, betraying me would just be a waste of your time."

"Too much effort," Emma agrees, carefully edging more space between them. He still has her jacket but that's okay. He can keep it.

"Truly. But no more than you've already expended this evening."

He's looking at her knee. There's still a droplet of blood there and a whole puddle of mud.

Maybe if she jumps in the river, she can escape that look in his eyes. The concern. The hand reaching out for her knee.

"Mind telling me what happened now that we are on better terms?"

There's a strange feeling building at the bottom of her stomach - well, where her stomach used to be because its dropped so far, she isn't sure it ever was there at all.

It growls.

Oh, okay, so its there.

"I should let you have breakfast first. You can have it in the carriage with Henry, let Victor stretch his legs a bit."

As he says this, he kneads soap into the blood and mud on her legs. Emma thinks of other things. Food. Changing out of her torn shirt. Henry. Artemis. Killian's fingers on her cheek.

(If Artemis is the protector of young girls, does she protect them from themselves? Curious minds would like to know.)

"Emmet, are you alright?"

"I am..."

She doesn't actually finish what she is going to say, but Killian takes her unfinished sentence as positive confirmation, which is better than what she would've said: I am uncomfortable with how comfortable your touch feels.

"I'm sure you have an interesting tale to tell so, duck into the water and scrape off that mud so you can get on with the telling."

"Right," Emma says and stands.

She doesn't bother to remove her boots to get into the water. They're still wet from before and they could do with some clean water too. Even if its colder than ice running over her toes.

Killian rinses his hands in the water beside her and says, "I suppose you were lucky that your cap didn't meet the same fate as the rest of your clothes. I know how much you love your hats, you never take them off."

"Habit," Emma says.

Her hair had grown really fast. Practically hanging down to her shoulders now, and she has no plans to cut it again. Her knuckles still carry those little scars.

"Not a bad one, I suppose," he remarks, considering her head for far longer than necessary.

"We should..."

"Get going. Yes, I know, Emmet. We do have a schedule. I haven't forgotten."

_Even though I spent all morning searching for you,_ his eyes seem to say.

"I need you to do something for me first. My tattoo."

He slips out of his jacket as Emma steps out of the river, satisfied with the cleanliness of her pants (and too cold to remain any longer.)

Rolling up his sleeve, Killian reveals his tattoo. Biting the question on her tongue, Emma waits for him to finish rolling it higher.

"You want me to cover it? With what?"

Digging in his pockets, he says, "With this," and pulls out a jar of skin coloured paste.

"You have the steadiest hands for this process," he says.

"Victor has very steady hands," she argues.

Still, she reaches for the paste.

"No brush? No, that would be too easy. I'll have to paint with my fingers then?"

Killian lays his arm out for her. "Careful. That paste is thick, I don't want more than I need."

"Humph," Emma says and smears a large splotch on his skin.

Petulant. Childish.

Killian groans and shifts under her fingers.

"Careful," she warns with a grin. "You don't want more than you need."

-

The telling of her ordeal takes hours (Henry and Killian like their questions) and many creative lies, something Emma is quite good at. Better than before even; this piracy thing is good for something. Afterwards, Henry suggests that she sleeps.

"My tutor can't be yawning when she meets the Princess."

Emma pats him on the shoulder while Killian says his agreement.

"You're going to do great, kid,” Emma says.

"I know," he replies.

What wakes Emma this time isn't her sweat soaked dreams but a familiar greeting. Henry resists looking out the window as Killian and Victor respond to the inquiries. Victor's response is surprisingly polite, and Killian is, as always, a gentleman.

"We're escorting the young Prince Henry to visit with the Princess Cassandra,” Killian says.

"You are expected, but we have to check the carriage. To be sure."

"Quite understandable,” Henry calls out of the cart.

He gives Emma a cheeky grin and lifts his thumb up. Emma hopes luck is with him because it certainly won’t be with her.

“Your Highness,” the guard says when Hawke opens the door.

He has his sword at the ready. Emma feels Henry stiffen and she places a hand on his side to steady him. Smiling at the guard, Emma nods her head.

“I’m Prince Henry’s tutor. May I have your name?”

The guard looks at her suspiciously.

“Why?”

“So we will be sure to tell the Prince and Princess of your commitment to your duty. Not many guards offer so… _thorough_ a welcome. It is a delight to see that you value the safety of your royalty. You should be commended.”

The guard’s chest lifts and his pale face reddens. Emma pokes Henry in the side when he starts to laugh and he carefully covers it with a cough.

“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.” He turns to Henry and bows, “Thank you for your patience, your majesty.”

“And thank you for your good work,” Henry says, nodding at the guard.

The man steps back and Hawke gawks at Henry and Emma, eyes wide as he shuts the door closed. Henry makes a noise like excitement and Emma presses a finger to her lips, waiting for them to start rolling again before she says, “Good work.”

“You sounded amazing, Emmet,” Henry says.

“I’ve been practicing with you, haven’t I?”

Henry rolls his eyes, but his cheeks redden as bright as the guard’s. Emma refrains from pointing that out. Instead, she sticks her head out the window to look at the castle as they ride into view. Even disguised as she is, she gets a thrill of excitement at seeing _the_ Golden Castle. It’s one of her favorite places in the world and she’s glad to be back.

Even if her stomach knots at the thought of meeting Cassandra and Frederick. At least she knows Midas isn’t here. He’d sent word over a month ago when Emma was still at home that he and Kathryn were to go on a diplomatic visit to a far off desert land. At least two months they would be away.

Maybe Emma can say that she isn’t _so_ unlucky because if Kathryn or Midas were here, this would never work. They would see right through her. They’re ruthless that way, always careful of enemies.

Frederick is much softer. “My father has the golden touch, but Frederick has a heart of gold,” Kathryn had said once while she and Emma’s dad drank themselves under a table.

“Dragons love gold,” her father had said and Emma still isn’t sure whether it was a slight at Kathryn or a random observation. It honestly could’ve been either. (She and her mother had a hell of a time getting them up the next morning before anyone discovered them.)

“Whoa,” Henry says in her ear when he joins her in looking out the window.

“Yeah, that is magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Has anyone ever tried to steal a castle?” Henry asks.

Emma chuckles. “Don’t get any ideas, kid. Stick to the plan.”

“The plan, right. _Woo_ _the princess_.”

“Let’s not call it that,” Emma says.

“Great. I hate calling it that,” Henry agrees.

They both climb back into the carriage, settling down in the not nearly cushioned enough seats. Henry grins at her. “I have an idea for a name.”

“What?” Emma asks, fingers playing over her wrist. Checking the tightness of the bracelet. It’s as secure as it always is, yet she keeps her hand on it and her eyes on Henry.

“Let’s call it Operation: Silver.”

“Silver? Why silver?”

He grins wider, explaining, “Because gold is too obvious. Plus, Silver sounds cooler. Mysterious. Like Artemis, we’re hunters.”

“On the hunt for gold?”

“Yep.”

She lets go of her wrist to drop a hand on his knee and say, “I’m pretty sure that makes us thieves, not hunters.”

“That makes us pirates,” Henry says with absolute certainty.

(Point: Henry.)

“That it does, kid.”

Emma slouches back into her seat.The wheels trundle onwards and hit a hole in the road, bouncing them. While Henry rubs at his butt and complains, Emma clutches at the seat, trying to move past the overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Henry talks on, but Emma can only nod at his chatter, stuck in a resurging fear of the future. Of the next time she’ll be in a carriage on the way to Midas’ castle without Henry. Without Killian and Victor arguing outside and Hawke yelling at the horses as if they can understand him.

It’s the callbacks to the past that shake her because that’s what these moments will be one day soon. The past to be thought of while she’s sailing with her father, or sneaking around the castle, or hanging around taverns where she shouldn’t be.

Or even doing none of those things. While sitting at court, listening to her people and trying to help them settle their disputes or offer her assistance in their troubles, perhaps she’ll think of Henry trying to steal his way onto a pirate ship. Maybe as she’s being crowned, she’ll think of Killian getting his crew to tell Emma that he was a pirate and his smirk of pride. As she’s trying the latest delicacies from kingdoms and lands and places she can’t pronounce or imagine, she’ll think of Colonel Pain’s stews. Maybe she’ll end up checking her own food for a hair.

It’ll be déjà vu of moments long gone by.

“We’re here,” Henry says excitedly as the carriage comes to a stop.

Emma sighs. It isn’t running from her problems if she’s about to face one right now. It’s compartmentalizing. She’ll worry about the far future…far later.

“You remember the plan, right?” Emma asks Henry. Just to be clear.

“I’m from the far reaches of Oz. My parents heard about the princess’ need for a companion and thought they could kill two crows with one stone -” Emma cringes. Her mother would just _love_ to hear that. “-I won’t say it like that. But, yes, I’m here to be her companion. You’re my tutor, Killian’s my guard, Victor my doctor for my chronic condition: fainting spells. And Hawke is Hawke. That’s it, right?”

Emma taps him on the nose. “You’re amazing.”

“I hope so. Let’s get out of this carriage. It’s so stuffy.”

The door flies open. Henry and Emma both startle. Seeing the person at the door, Emma startles again.

“Carriages are such tiresome things,” Cassandra says – little Cassie, all grown up, gold threaded through her blonde hair, freckles on her cheeks. She looks _so_ old.

Emma _feels_ old.

Also, far too exposed.

“You’re Henry, aren’t you?” she says eagerly.

Henry doesn’t know how to react as Cassie pulls him out of the carriage. He flops around. Emma follows right after him to find Victor standing by the carriage, snickering.

“Cassandra, let the Prince breathe.”

Emma freezes. Cassandra hadn’t even seemed to notice her, but Frederick’s eyes linger on her instead of Henry.

“Your majesty.”

Emma bows, praying that he doesn’t stare at her any longer.

“You are Prince Henry’s tutor, Emmet, I presume?”

Emma could slap herself for the name now. Why hadn’t she thought to change it to something not so painfully obvious?

(Because you were worrying that _other_ things would become painfully obvious?)

“The one and the same. Forgive me for any rudeness, but I believe your daughter might be inducing one of Henry’s fainting spells.”

It’s the perfect way out and Henry takes it. One moment, Cassandra’s hands are on his wrist, and the next Henry is on the ground.

Emma takes the way out too and runs back to the carriage to grab Victor’s bag as he moves to Henry’s side.

“Stand back,” Victor says. 

Sober Victor is an interesting Victor. It's clear he has talent - the way he pulls out different instruments to check Henry's vitals and how he holds him, careful and detached. He’s a real doctor while sober. It’s a good look for him.

"The boy will be fine, but he'll need to lay down for a while to recover himself."

"Of course," Frederick says. "Escort them to their rooms."

"I'll carry the prince," Killian says when two of the guards move to lift him. He nods at the guards and they step back to allow him to move to where Henry fell.

"I'll need to remain in the room with Henry if that's possible," Emma says. She doesn't want to draw attention to herself but she'll need privacy just in case of any slip-ups or questions he might have about how to proceed. "It's the policy of his parents that he learn something new from the moment he awakes to the moment he falls asleep."

"That is dedicated," Frederick says. Emma gives a half bow, catching herself in the curtsey before she makes the move.

"And of course, I know how to help him through his fainting spells. I've been trained by the doctor."

"Alright. Please have Sir Killian and the rest of Henry’s company led to the farthest room in the Eastern wing. The one with the adjoining doors, please," Frederick says.

He tips his head, but lifts his eyes to look at her again. Emma resists the smile. That would be foolish.

(No more foolish than this.)

Frederick smiles. Emma bites her inner cheek to keep her expression steady when she returns the nod.

(Perhaps a bit more.)

-

Settled within Henry’s bedroom, their baggage delivered and the guards assuaged, Emma sits herself down on the bed beside Henry's prone form. Victor takes the seat beside her and the feather filled bed dips far enough that Henry slides towards them.

"Wake up, sunshine," Victor says, snapping his fingers in front of Henry's face.

Henry's eyelids flutter and then he slowly opens them. Seeing Emma and Victor, he heaves a sigh of relief.

“That was the scariest moment of my life,” Henry says.

Emma sucks in a breath. “You’ll have to face her tomorrow. You were in luck that it’s almost evening. They won’t expect you at dinner, but they will expect you at breakfast and you can’t have a fainting spell then. You must be the perfect companion for the Princess tomorrow. Can you do that?”

“Emmet, you’re worse than an actual tutor,” Victor says.

He pulls his heart listening device – a stethoscope, if she remembers correctly – out of his bag and puts it on. When he grabs Emma, she nearly slaps him.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses.

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re alive in there and that the soul of my awful tutor hasn’t possessed you.”

“Victor, if Emmet kills you, it’ll be your own fault,” Killian says.

Emma didn’t even hear him reenter the room. Worrisome. She'll have to check the locks. Staying here with her parents, she always slept in the Western tower because the golden staircase always made her feel like she was ascending go somewhere magical. The Eastern wing is a bit unfamiliar to her.

“This is true, but Emmet won’t kill me. He likes me too much," Victor explains while putting away his stethoscope.

“That won’t stop me from making you your own next patient,” Emma says.

“You should listen to him,” Killian says. “He has that look on his face.”

“What look?” Henry asks.

Emma blanches. Or she blushes. She can’t tell what she’s feeling exactly, somewhere between anger at Killian for mentioning it and a warmth heralded by his acknowledgement.

“The ‘I’m going to strangle you’ look,” Emma says.

“Ah.”

Victor leans out of reach. Dismissing him, Emma returns to the previous conversation.

“Henry, can you be the perfect companion for Princess Cassandra?”

“I can,” Henry says.

“If she gets too hands-on, just ask her about her mother.”

Killian snorts. “Princess Kathryn? Yes, that would work. From what I’ve heard, she seems the type to disapprove."

“Just the name should make her remember herself," Emma adds.

It's been years, but she's sure that hasn't changed. Just like the sound of her own mother's sigh always makes Emma stiffen - even when it's her father making the sound.

"So, Operation: Silver," Henry starts.

"Operation what now?" Hawke asks from his lounge on the floral patterned sofa.

"This operation is Operation: Silver," Emma says. "And Henry and I both want to know how long this will take."

"We have to get a lay of the castle. Scope out guard movements and decide the best time. I will let you know as soon as I know. But we'll do it fast. This farce will not pass for long,” Killian explains.

"Speaking of," Emma says. "Reading time. Victor."

"You have a book. Why can't he read that one?"

Emma thinks of the scribbled out lines and Killian's name written in her hand. All the knowledge held within – and the secrets, too.

"Yours is a much easier read for a beginner."

Victor gapes at her so Emma snaps her fingers. "Get to it. We don't have all night and Frederick promised to send dinner up in case Henry awakens."

"Hawke and I shall be dining with the guards,” Killian adds.

Emma glances at him. It’s a smart move, albeit a dangerous one. Though the guards that they’ve met don’t seem as terrifying as the ones Emma remembers, she’s worried. Perhaps Midas took his more ruthless guards with him, or more likely, she just hasn’t met them yet.

But Killian will.

"Intel? Spy away, friends, and enjoy the drinks for me,” Victor says. There might be actual tears in his eyes.

"Drinks?" Henry questions.

She looks at him and claps a hand to her forehead and the bright, mischievous look in his eyes – a marker of all the time he’s spent at Victor’s side.

"Guards love their drinks,” Victor says. Hawke grunts loudly in agreement.

"Leave the drink and teach me to read," Henry demands – a marker of all the time he’s spent at Emma’s side.

"Said like a true prince," Killian says.

Victor laughs along with them but deliberately forced sounding laughter. Emma laughs harder, but a memory catches the laughter in her throat.

Walsh's voice singing in her ear. Killian's frowning visage.

Emma shakes the memory away, but she can still hear him singing, "You can't always get what you want."

She makes the mistake of looking up at Killian and in her head as the phantom Walsh sings, "You get what you need."

What she needs is a bucket of ice to dip her head in before the flames on her face ignite.

(And for Killian to stop smiling at her dammit.)

-

She sleeps easy despite Henry's snoring, and despite how precarious and dangerous her situation is, her sleeping mind recognizes the gold walls as safety.

When morning comes, she and Henry dress in companiable chatter. He struggles with the buttons on his coat so Emma becomes his lad-in-waiting and helps him dress to the standards of all royals. He looks handsome, but Emma doesn't tell him. He wouldn't appreciate it if his second meeting with the Princess started off with him pink around the edges.

A knock on their door breaks them out of their discussion of the merits of archery versus swordplay. Emma waits for the knocker to announce themselves before she opens it.

(Safety first.)

"Emmet?"

Killian sounds frustrated so Emma takes pity and unlocks the door.

"You locked me out. What, were you afraid I'd whisk you away in the night?"

He says all this on a quiet murmur that Henry can't hear, so Emma pretends not to hear it as well.

"Hawke and Victor are waiting on us no doubt. Let us head down to breakfast."

Killian lifts his shoulders in question. Emma also pretends not to see this.

"I'm hungry," she says when Killian continues to stand in the doorway. It borders on whining and she pouts.

"As am I," Henry announces.

Killian’s gaze stays on her mouth as he replies, "Very well, Prince Henry. Let us go.”

The pout was definitely a mistake, Emma thinks but her focus drifts at the lilt in his voice. Noble, but not posh.

(God, if she calls him a gentleman in her head one more time, she’s going to strangle herself.)

"Emmet?"

"I'm going," she says, speeding away from him so Henry can pass.

Victor and Hawke, not the best combination usually – especially when Victor's not sober enough to hold his tongue and stop himself from making any stupid bets – are already downstairs in the servants’ dining area.

Emma doesn't expect Killian to join them at a royal meal, and he doesn't, standing guard at the entrance to the main dining hall with a mouthed 'I ate' to the question (Concern? No) in Emma's gaze.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Henry," Cassie says. Frederick is absent so it is just Cassie, Henry, and Emma at the table while her guards stand at the other end. Emma looks them over. She doesn’t recognize them, which hopefully means they won’t recognize her.

"I'm glad to be feeling better. Those fainting spells aren't fun. Especially when Victor uses his stethoscope on me," he says, sitting down beside her at her frantically waving behest. Leaning into her, he adds, "Those things are super cold."

Cassie laughs and Emma might as well not exist as Henry asks Cassie about _everything_. As curious as usual, and as overenthusiastic, Henry barely gives them space to breathe let alone eat.

At least, she doesn't exist to Henry and Cassie. Before the food is even on the table, Killian mouths 'It looks like it’s love at first sight.'

Emma rolls her eyes. Quickly she glances at the pair, but they're talking about Midas, so she turns back to Killian and mouths, 'They're kids.'

With a smirk, Killian says, 'Love knows no boundaries.'

Emma nearly bursts out laughing. She stuffs her mouth with a piece of bread instead and resolves not to look at him.

That lasts until she's finished eating her eggs. Henry's somehow shifted the conversation to continue his and Emma’s swordplay vs. archery argument with Cassie. She doesn't like either. Apparently, she prefers more clandestine methods. Poison and “daggers in the night.”

Emma can't help herself. She sneaks a glance at Killian.

'Murderess in the making.'

Emma shrugs. 'Queen in the making.'

He looks to the heavens as he mouths, 'And they say pirates are bad.' His gaze drops back down for her response.

'Yeah, you can’t even compare to this one.’

'Really? Emmet -”

At the same time that he says her name, Cassie calls her as well, so Emma jerks to look at her.

"I like that name, Emmet. You're much quieter than my tutors. They like to critique my “talkative habits” when I eat."

She pouts. Emma can see little Cassie in her expression, pouting as she and Emma were forced back inside because of the rain.

They’d snuck out only half an hour later to chase each other through the mud, and Cassie has that same look in her eye as she did then. Like she’d be up for anything, even risking her mother’s wrath.

It’s a worrisome look in a thirteen year old.

"Their methods are different than mine. I prefer to let Henry talk. Talking improves relationships, fosters alliances."

"Alliances can be broken if you slip poison into the visiting diplomat’s cake. It’s a very popular method."

That starts their ‘murderers in the making’ conversation (a more fitting name for the way Cassie describes the way a diplomat’s face will purple depending on the poison) up again. Emma listens for a moment before her gaze drifts from her half-eaten meal to Killian. He has his hand on his belt, adjusting the strap of his sword. He’s focused on the task, forehead pinched and mouth thinned. Emma lingers on his fingers. He’s removed his rings and they leave tan lines behind that she can see even from over here.

It takes him awhile to notice her gaze. When he does, he relaxes into a warm smile.

'Let's make sure to check the cakes. You never know what could be poisoned,’ Emma mouths at him.

Killian dips his head to laugh.

She waits until he’s looking at her to add, 'According to the Princess, it could be anything, and we did tell Henry he wouldn't die.'

Killian nods. 'Right we did. So, let’s call in Hawke. He can be his official taster.'

"Do you usually spend meals in the company of your tutor and your guard? You should have told me, we would have set a place for him," Cassie says.

Emma lurches back around to look at her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong and yet she feels caught, like she’s let some kind of secret slip.

(She wonders if it’s as obvious to everyone else as it is to her.

That fact.

That observable fact.)

"That's not necessary milady," Killian says. "I am quite fine over here."

"Oh, that's no fun. Come sit and talk. Which do you prefer: sword, bow & arrow, or the weapons of an assassin? Emmet has been very silent on the subject."

Killian moves to them. Touching a hand to the back of Emma's chair, he says, "That is likely because Emmet would choose none of those. His favorite weapon is diplomacy. He has quite the way with words. He could convince a Goddess to spare a pirate’s life or Saurotar not to kill a thief if he put his mind to it, I’m sure.”

( _Very_ sure.)

"Oh, Emmet, you're like my parents. They always tell me not to worry about assassins and focus on my diplomatic skills instead."

Emma smiles and leans forward in her seat; Cassie will like this.

"If I had to choose a weapon, I'd go with the sword." She pauses, letting a small smirk cover her lips. "Dipped in poison.”

Cassie claps her hands and turns to Henry. "I _like_ your tutor."

Behind her, Killian coughs. His fingers brush her neck, and Emma feels it as she always does, warmth that remains even when he pulls away.

-

Cassie _likes_ Henry probably more than she likes ‘Emmet.’ _What is it about Henry and Princesses?_ Emma wonders as she follows them down the hall while Cassie continues her tour of the Castle, which has basically translated to: “this is one boring corridor, but at least it’s made of gold.”

Emma thinks it might be Henry’s smile. Even she finds it endearing when Cassie whips him in the face with the golden tip of her braid and he just scratches the spot it touched, grinning beneath his hand.

"It tickles," he says, continuing to follow her down the hall despite her assault.

"Most people complain that it hurts," Cassie remarks with wonder.

Henry shrugs. "I've been hit with worse than a braid of gold."

Cassie perks up at this. She stops walking to demand, "Where?"

"In Oz, we have trolls."

"Trolls? We have them here, too. Awful creatures. They tried to kidnap my aunt and uncle once. That was when my mother was still betrothed to my uncle."

Henry's expression verges between confusion and curious horror.

"The King of Misthaven, if I'm not mistaken. He was betrothed to your mother," Emma cuts in.

"Yes. It's really strange. My cousin tried to explain it to me once, because see, we're not actually related by blood. My mother and the King just became really good friends."

"I see," Henry says. His wide eyes tell a different story, but Emma can explain in detail later, which will be easy since she knows the details so intimately.

"The trolls?" Cassie prods.

Instead of his smile returning with the change in conversation, he grimaces, every word drawing a new line across his forehead.

"They tried to...uh...kidnap me. They make children work for them there. If they catch you, they send you out to steal for them. Or lure royal victims…such as myself to their hideouts so they can fleece them and hold them for ransom."

"Oh, that's awful. Don't your people do something about them?"

_‘Poison, perhaps?_ ’ her expression says. Henry speaks before she can suggest it.

"They do! It's, ah, been much better since we rid ourselves of the royals who were helping them in their crimes."

He bites his bottom lip and Emma recognizes the truth in his lie. He hadn’t talked about his past since that first night, and here it is, deflating his usual happy mood and she didn’t even think to ask. She was so caught up in all their lies and her own that she never even bothered to learn the truth of his past.

Emma tries to catch his eye, but he looks everywhere except at her.

When his gaze meets Cassie's, she says, "Royals were helping them?"

"Yeah, but they're all gone and everything's much better now. I’m much better where I am now than where I was before."

Cassie grabs his hands. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says excitedly, and then spins him wildly.

“What _are_ you doing?” he asks.

His smile makes a brief resurgence until Cassie says, “We should go troll hunting.”

(Oh no.)

“Troll hunting?”

“It’s a game that my cousin taught me. But I don’t usually have enough people for it.”

As the cousin in question, Emma opens her mouth to protest, but Killian chooses that moment to round the corner, so she covers it in a cough. He sends her a questioning eyebrow. Emma waves him off while Cassie spins Henry again. Poor kid.

“Troll hunting!” Cassie shouts, dragging Henry down the hall.

(Poor kid. Poor us.)

“What’s troll hunting?” Killian asks. Scratching his chin, he looks after Cassie and Henry.

Emma sighs. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think we’re going to like it.”

“What’s not to like about troll hunting?”

(A lot.)

-

She doesn’t end up with a broken arm this time, which is great, but Henry does end up concussed. Cassie had been all too excited when she exclaimed, “I hit him so hard that I induced a fainting spell.”

(Troll hunting, also known as that game where you tackle “trolls” to the ground until they’re too stunned to move.)

Frederick had clasped a hand over his eyes and murmured an apology, but Victor, calm and collected, said, “Perhaps she knocked the fainting spells right out of him. She certainly knocked something out of him.”

Emma actually couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not, but she hadn’t stayed to see. Frederick may have been preoccupied with his daughter’s near deadly assault on ‘Prince Henry of the far reaches of Oz’ and what he probably thought to be a narrowly avoided war, but he’d glanced at her again and she’d seen the question in his eyes.

She isn’t going to wait for that question to become recognition.

Besides, Henry is laid out in his bed, and despite Victor’s assurances that he’ll be fine, Emma’s anxious to see him for herself.

He is sitting up on his own when she enters their shared room so she takes that as the first good sign, but she can also see the knot on his head, huge and red.

“That looks like it hurts,” Emma says.

“Where’s a god when you need them to perform instant healing on you?” he asks.

Emma peers out the wide open window. The crescent moon hangs low and bright in the sky. She can almost hear the baying of Artemis’ dogs, the whistle of an arrow.

The cries of her victims.

“Probably on their way to cause more damage than a simple tackle from a princess.”

“It wasn’t a simple tackle. I think she was trying to kill me,” Henry argues.

“I doubt it. If she was, she’d have poisoned you.”

They both laugh, Henry’s chuckle softer than her own.

“I’ll have to get Hawke to taste my food.”

(Great minds think alike – or rather, Pirates think alike.)

“That’s what Killian suggested.”

Henry quiets. Curious, Emma crosses the room and sits beside him on the bed.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. “Are you second guessing Operation: Silver?”

“No. Operation: Silver is the coolest thing I’ve ever been a part of. I’m not going to mess it up!”

His emotion takes her aback. It’s not the snap of anger that gets her but the way he shuts his eyes afterwards. He isn’t fast enough to stop the tear from tracking down his cheek.

“Henry?”

“I didn’t mean to talk about it,” Henry says. “I was going to lie, but it just came out.”

Clarity comes quickly. “About the trolls?”

“I didn’t know my parents. I’ve always been alone,” Henry says. “It was really hard in the land I came from. After the orphanage caretakers sold us to the trolls, the trolls made us lure travelers into their traps. That’s how I learned to be a thief.”

He sighs. Voice shaky, he continues, “I didn’t want to work for them. They were awful. If I could, I’d have slayed them all. But I’m not as good of a troll hunter as Cassandra, so I ran instead. I told myself if I could escape them, then I could do anything. Have anything I wanted.”

“It wasn’t until I met you that I realized what I wanted.”

His voice is so quiet that Emma finds herself speaking in the same quiet tone. “And what’s that, kid?” she asks, nervousness creeping up her spine.

“Well, I wanted a family.”

_I’m much better where I am now than where I was before._

A family.

“Well, that’s great because I always wanted a brother,” Emma says nonchalantly even though it pulls at her heart, painful tugging like a hand held too tightly in her own.

She always did want a brother.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

Emma looks at him steadily. He looks down. Watching him fumble with his hands, without thinking, she wraps her arms around him and squeezes his shoulders.

"Oh, come on, Emmet, I don't need a hug."

Emma squeezes him harder. "Yea, sure, but I do so just suffer it, kid."

"Whatever, Emmet."

"Come on, Swan, you have to do a little better than that to bear that name."

Henry’s eyes widen. " _Emmet_.”

She grabs him again, this time, dragging them both back on the bed. Poking at his sides, she tickles him until he’s sprawled over with laughter.

“You’re going to _really_ have to do better than that, Mr. Swan.”

“That’s Prince Swan to you,” Henry sniffs. The tone is scarily reminiscent of the first Duke Emma ever had to throw out of her court.

“Much better,” she says.

His chin dips back down. His smile is shaky. “You think so?”

“If I say yes, your ego will grow as big as the Captain’s and where will that leave us? Now, you should sleep. Injury or not, the Princess is sure to have you up bright and early tomorrow.”

Henry groans, touching a finger to his bruised knot.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” he yawns.

“I’m not the Captain,” Emma corrects, pulling up from beside him to get out of his bed.

“You’re close enough.”

(Too close.)

“Good night, Henry,” she says quietly.

With no plans to go to sleep, she crawls into her bed anyway.

“Good night, Emmet.”

Kicking off her boots, she slips out of her jacket and crawls underneath the covers. Once Emma dims her light, it isn’t long before Henry falls asleep. Henry’s snores flood the room, but Emma wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he slept like a normal human being. Even if it was actually late and she was actually tired. She tucks the sheet under her chin and with one hand, pens out the number of days passed on her stomach.

One week more.

Only seven days.

She tries to tug the sheet higher and ends up pulling on her necklace instead. It hurts. She’ll probably bruise. Clasping the swan in her hand, she traces its spread wings with her fingers.

There’s no point wishing for her father to be here to talk this through with. He wouldn’t be able to help, even in offering comfort. Her mom’s songs wouldn’t soothe her.

She’ll have to get through this herself.

_Emma, you’re so good at being on your own that I’m afraid that’s where you’ll want to stay._

Henry’s snores echo louder. Emma sighs. Being on her own has never felt lonelier than it does right now, with her ‘brother’ asleep in his bed and Emmet lying in the bed where Emma should be.  

-

There’s something extremely boring about following around young teenagers. Especially when they aren’t allowed to do much more than talk, considering the continued swelling of Henry’s head.

Emma’s head might be swelled as well. Bruising to the cranium. A serious brain injury that has her elbowing Killian in the side as they stand in Cassie’s study room, leaning against one of the ceiling high golden bookcases.

“I’m going to steal that book,” she says quietly, her words covered by Cassie’s raising voice (another argument about murder, no doubt.) She points the thin book on the table.

“Are you serious?” Killian asks.

Emma doesn’t feel serious at all when she slips him a grin and says, “It is good practice for the real sneaking about. Don’t you want to make sure you won’t get caught?”

She steps back from him and slips the thin book within her vest. “Or are you afraid?”

He throws his head back, rolling his eyes hard enough to lose them. When he lifts back up he steps into Emma and says, “I am not afraid of this or anything else.”

“Everybody’s afraid of something,” Emma hums.

“Truly, and what are you afraid of then, Emmet?”

So, many things that it would take them all year to list them. Instead, she slides the book out for a moment, just to flash the cover.

“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

Killian’s laughter is too loud, but Emma has no regrets when Cassie and Henry look up with almost identical raised eyebrows.

“I apologize, your highnesses. Sir Killian finds my teachings quite amusing. Perhaps you will feel the same?”

"Are you reading my silly book?" Cassandra asks.

The book is sticking out of her vest, just enough for Cassandra to see. Emma gives herself a mental slap upside the head.

"No," Henry says eagerly. Her savior as always. "Emmet knows much better stories than those."

"Your silly book reminded me of another story. From our home kingdom.”

"From Oz? What story is that?" Cassie asks, walking over to them.

Emma breathes deep. She can do this. Stories (lies) are her talent. "How Dorothy defeated the Wicked Witch of course. She was just a child at the time so of course she had to have help."

"From lions, tigers, and bears?" Cassie crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her chin high. The royal tilt.

_Royals_.

"Lions, yes. Well one in particular."

"Really?"

Not really, but Emma can embellish a bit. Lionhearted isn’t far from lion.

(And lies are her talent.)

-

If this Princess/Pirate/Liar thing doesn’t work out for Emma, at least she knows she’ll be able to support herself selling stories. Cassie assures her of this by the end of dinner, when Emma’s told her all of the story of Dorothy, Zelena and the Wizard of Oz (leaving out that Walsh was enslaved by Zelena; he was kind to her – she isn’t going to be the one to let that story slip.)

By the time, she’s settled on her bed, waiting for Killian and Hawke to return, she’s so comforted by that knowledge that she doesn’t even panic when they do return and reveal that they’ve found the treasure room and that they’re almost finished scoping out the guard’s positions.

She hums to herself, adds her input when it’s needed, but her mind is elsewhere until Killian dumps himself on her bed.

“Hey!” she says, pushing at his heavy form.

“Look,” he says, and from his jacket – a light brown one that brings out his tan – he pulls out a single strand of gold hair.

Startled, Emma forgets about kicking him off her bed. "How the hell?"

"I am a very talented thief,” he says.

Emma rolls her eyes, "So where's the hairbrush you stole it from?"

With a grin, Killian reaches into his jacket and pulls out the gold hairbrush. He throws his hand in the air, announcing to the room, "Emmet, thinks he's better at piracy than I am."

"She caught me and I still have the book," Emma brags. "A far more difficult challenge than a simple hairbrush."

"Or the golden box it came in, right?"

Emma frowns. Killian ducks down, reaching underneath her bed. When he comes back up, he lifts up a golden trimmed floral box that is way too big to have fit in a pocket or his vest.

"How the _hell_?"

-

She takes it as a challenge. By the next evening, Emma has nearly half of Cassie’s library under her bed when Killian sneaks back into Henry’s room with Cassie’s cache of delicate gold rings. All thirty of them.

“Your fingers are small, aren’t they, Emmet? You can fit them,” he says, grabbing her hand.

Bewildered and heart racing a billion beats (or more) a second, Emma says, “What?”

“That’s the bet that I and the Princess made. She _swore_ that your fingers could fit her rings. And I of course said that they couldn’t. So, we have to see who is right.”

Emma breathes a sigh of relief.

(Yes, relief. She’s infatuated, not penning her wedding vows.)

“You are a devious mastermind,” Emma compliments. “Soon there'll be nothing left to take."

Killian nods vehemently. "And of course then we'll just have to start taking from each other.”

"I rather like those rings you always wear,” Emma says, eyeing the pale lines of his fingers, her words more truth than she cares to admit.

"And I like that hat you always wear.”

Killian emphasizes this by tugging at the cap on her head. Emma slaps his hands away.

"And what happens when all the material items are gone?" she asks.

"Well, then we'll just have to steal the immaterial. But there you would certainly lose.”

"Why so?"

Emma 100%, absolutely, totally, _completely_ wishes Killian would stop doing this – leaning in so close she can count his eyelashes. So close that she forgets their easy conversation because she’s looking into his eyes and losing herself to that desire that keeps flaring up no matter how hard she tries to suppress it.

She especially wishes he would stop saying things like this: "Because Emmet, I'd just steal your heart and then you'd be powerless against me."

(Calm the fuck down.)

"Heartlessness would make thievery easier don't you think?" she asks.

He licks his top lip and Emma is painfully aware of how she copies the movement, her tongue following the path of her own lip (like it’s his lip instead.)

"Perhaps, but with your heart in my hands, I could make you do whatever I want."

"And what would you want?"

Killian ogles her. Such a common occurrence, at this point, Emma shouldn’t be feeling on edge. She should just expect it.

She _does_ expect it, and still she feels on edge. His laughter doesn’t help.

“That’s comforting,” she says.

(It isn’t.)

“At worst, I’d make you watch after Victor.”

Emma cracks a smile. The desire subsides to something manageable.

(His eyes are so bright and blue, but it’s better than looking at his lips.)

“You’re an absolute monster,” she teases.

“Oh, I’m the worst of the worst,” he agrees.

“A villain.”

“A dastardly, dashingly handsome and infinitely charming villain.”

(He’s _serious_.)

Emma clutches at her stomach, breath knocked from her lungs and escaping in echoing laughter.

“Emmet, that wasn’t a joke. _Emmet_.”

Emma can’t stop laughing. Even when his hands touch her sides. Even when he jabs her. Even his, “Oh, come on, you know I can make you regret this,” doesn’t make the laughter stop. Especially when he laughs with her, a harmony unlike Ursula’s song, but beautiful nonetheless.

At least to her traitorous ears.

-

Killian wears his rings the next day, and when Emma notices, he winks at her.

‘Tread carefully, Emmet, lest you lose your heart,’ he mouths at her while Cassie insists that Henry’s well enough to go horseback riding with her – even when he explains that he doesn’t know how to ride.

Emma tries to focus on that. She folds her arms to her chest, but the hand she leaves resting over her heart is coincidental.

(The hand that tugs on her bracelet is not.)

-

The next evening comes with Hawke’s announcement that he knows the guard’s patterns and that he can have the cart ready to roll tomorrow evening.

“So, we’re all set?” Henry breathes out.

He looks terrified by the prospect. His nose is scrunched up too – confusion, perhaps, but at what?

“Yes. All we have left to do is gather our things and plan who’s to go after the goods.”

“Obviously, it’s going to be you and Emmet. You _do_ make quite the team,” Victor says without looking up from the book he’s reading from. Some kind of monster tale, she thinks, but she didn’t have a chance to truly look between all the novels she’d stashed under her bed.

With Victor’s words, a weight settles in her stomach, heavy and immovable.

“Of course it would be Emmet,” Killian agrees a beat later. “ _He_ has a good head on his shoulders, unlike the rest of you lot. Save Henry, of course, but we need stronger arms than his.”

(The weight lifts. Funny how that happens.)

“No offense taken,” Henry says, voice high and tone bitten, offense obviously taken.

“Tomorrow night?” Emma asks, just to be sure.

“Tomorrow night.”

She stares out the window. A bird flies by, whistling a tune and Emma watches its path draw closer to the open window. Normal bird or not, Emma has no inclination to find out. Jumping out of her seat, she says, “I’m going for a walk.”

Her tone comes off snappish so she forces herself to calm and say, “One last tour around the castle grounds before I leave its beautiful gold walls behind.”

“You’re making me wistful, Emmet. I’ll join you,” Hawke says, jumping to his feet.

“Emmet and I should talk over…ah, Operation: Silver.” Killian winks at Henry while Emma inches closer to the doorway. Even knowing that she won’t be able to escape doesn’t stop her from trying. She’s almost to the locked door when he says, “I’ll join him on his tour after Hawke updates me on our operation.”

“Great!” Emma says. “I’ll just wait for you outside, then.”

She unlocks the door in a rush and tumbles out the room. Looking down the hall, she sees one of the guards making his nightly rounds. Emma nods at him as he disappears towards the Western Wing. When she’s sure that he’s gone, she sinks to the floor with her head between her knees.

A solo walk would’ve done her some good. It would’ve given her time to think. She needs that right now – time to calm and collect herself. She needs to consider her next steps, not just have _four days left, four days left, four days left_ chanting in her head.

She can’t hear their voices but every beat of her heart sounds like the opening of the door. Emma could cry (not kill) for a drink right now. It should be as handy in forgetting the future as it is in drowning the past. Maybe. She could test it at least.

(Try and you might succeed.)

Or she could start walking and leave him behind. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? She just can’t seem to take that step.

The door pops open and Killian walks over to her. Emma barely lifts her head in acknowledgement.

“Emmet, are you falling down on the job now? We’ve come too far for that.”

“Mmm,” Emma agrees? Disagrees? Wants to melt into the floor and become one with the gold bricks instead?

Killian lays out a hand for her to take. Gingerly, she accepts his help and pulls herself to her feet.

“Let’s see to that walk,” Killian says and waves out a hand for her to lead him.

Emma lets her feet guide her where they may because her head certainly is no use in this situation. It keeps screaming about wants and needs and _facts_ , which is _surprisingly_ unhelpful. She knows the facts. She knows what she wants and what she needs. What she doesn’t know is what to do with all that information.

“Henry told me that he’s officially a Swan now.”

“What – oh. Yeah, Henry Swan,” Emma says.

“You have a very kind heart, Emmet.”

“A weak one, some might say.”

(I would say.)

Self-deprecation isn’t a feeling she’s used to – it feels wrong. She feels wrong. Emma looks to Killian as he laughs. His smile is _kind_ when he says, “Weak is not a word I would use to describe you.”

“You don’t _know_ me.”

Silence follows her words, filled only by the clicking of their heels on gold. It’s a distance of her own making and it feels just as terrible as the thought of putting physical distance between them (or lessening it, for that matter.)

It feels _wrong_.

“Would you like to play a game, Emmet?”

Emma shrugs. It could be no worse than the silence. It could also be _much_ worse, but this evening has already started off terribly. She can handle more, probably.

(After all, weak is not a word he’d use to describe you.)

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well, I get to make the rules,” Killian says as if that’s a reason for her to drop out.

Emma waves him on.

“I ask a question. If you can’t answer it or refuse to answer it, then the match goes to me. If you answer it, you get to ask me the next question. The same rules apply. We play until one of us can’t answer a question.”

“What do I get if I win?”

“Are winnings all that matter to you, Emmet?”

Emma lifts an eyebrow. If only he knew all the things that matter to her…she wouldn’t be here, walking with him. Or playing this game. If he knew, she isn’t sure where she would be right now.

Probably somewhere just as confusing as this walk by his side.

“Alright, alright. If you win, you can be Captain for a day.”

Emma nods. “Are you sure you want to risk that? What if the crew likes me better?”

“If the crew prefers _you_ over me, I’d say that they have good taste and willingly step down.”

_Good taste_. Emma flushes red.

“But if I win, then you’ll step down from your position as Smee’s first mate.”

“So what will I do then?” she asks curiously.

The smile he flashes her makes her damn that curiosity. She hates it when he smiles like that because all she can see is the blue of his eyes, distracting her from everything important, that blue seeming all too important.

“Take over some _other_ duties,” Killian says.

He grabs her arm as they round the corner, pulling her into them. She was about to walk into a wall. This isn’t her night.

(At least he’s warm.)

“I’m not becoming your cabin boy,” Emma says when she’s out of his grasp.

“Then don’t lose,” Killian says on a sing song.

They pass a few guards as they move down the stairs, nodding at them.

“I’ll start off easy,” Killian says. “What is your favorite color?”

Emma doesn’t have to think of this one, though she probably should have before she let it slip out her mouth. “Blue. And yours?”

“Green,” he says.

She _hates_ the way he stares into her eyes, but at least she isn’t the one who nearly walks into a wall this time. Having to pull him out of the way makes her feel a little better when he asks, “Why did you want to join my crew?”

There are so many lies she can come up with that she opts for the truth instead.

“I was running away,” she says.

He nods. _So I figured,_ his expression says. He doesn’t look happy to be correct. Emma still has her arm on him, and yet, she doesn’t pull away.

“My question. After everything that happened with you and Ursula, why did you become…”

She trails off as they pass another guard, but Killian clears his throat, answering her question anyway.

“It was a means to an end.”

“What end?”

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” he tuts. “Do you realize where you’re leading us?”

Emma looks around. She recognizes these halls. Two corridors down is the treasury. She stops in place, spinning around to face him.

“I didn’t, but now I do.”

“We should go back,” should be her next words. If she were in a better place mentally, it would be. Instead _four days, four days, four days,_ starts up its thought drowning chorus again and with absolute certainty, she knows what to do with all her wants, her needs, and her facts – not spend another moment pushing the far future to far later. Four days is not the far future. Four days is here and now.

Urgently, she asks, “Do you want to complete Operation: Silver now?”

He jerks back, mouth hanging half open. “I -” Killian pauses, shutting his eyes and shaking his heads. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he says finally. Quieter he asks, “Are you – no, that would be a question and I already know – Yes, let’s do it right now. There shouldn’t be that many guards patrolling this area and we can go up the back way to our room. Grab the crew.”

Instead of stepping away from her, he pulls her with him, down the hall. Emma tries to tread carefully, but their boots still sound loud.

Not as loud as the voices of the guards as they come around the corner.

“Fuck,” Emma curses. Repeats it a bit louder when Killian pushes her up against the wall.

“They might bypass us if we…” Killian scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Emmet, may I steal a kiss?” he whispers.

Her first thought is of the game, which is stupid when they’re about to get caught trying to sneak into the treasury of _King Midas._ They could very well be killed in the next two minutes. And saying no wouldn’t mean losing, it would mean having to find a different way around this, probably. They could just do it tomorrow when they’d originally planned before Emma got swept up in _four days._

She has four days left with him.

It’s stupid that his question is as much a challenge to her as it is a “save our skins” request.

“Emmet?”

“That’s two questions,” Emma breathes and she leans up to kiss him.

It’s –

( _It’s_ )

Emma’s been kissed before, under much less dire circumstances, and maybe that’s it, maybe that’s why it feels like her skin is alight with tiny dancing flames. It’s why she opens her mouth to him and moans into his when his tongue brushes her teeth, sinking deeper, and drawing back just when she licks out to taste him as well. It could definitely explain why her hands are fisted in his shirt and she pulls him closer, every step pushing her farther into the corner, until she knows when she opens her eyes, all she’ll see is him and his body pressed up against hers. And oh god, it just _has_ to explain why she’s hot down below her belly where his thigh is inching ever closer and – she wants it there, to grind up against where the pressure is building and –

There’s no explanation for that.

The fact is: they have a heist to pull. She doesn’t have time to keep letting his fingers explore her waist when the guards have passed and are already gone, when their laughs about “young love,” have faded in her ears.

The fact is: Emma wants this kiss to never end. The teasing of his tongue, in and out, in and out, and gods, he could do so much more, and she’d let him – hell, she’d beg him to. She doesn’t want the feeling to ever end, which is why it must. It’s what Emmet would do. She squirms away from him at the thought.

Emmet. The perfect coolant for that building heat.

“They’re gone,” Emma explains, trying to stare anywhere but at him. He’s wrapped around her, though, so all she can do is stare at his ear instead of his lips. It’s helpful not to see the full pink of them, not to see the harsh breath he takes, even though she can hear it, his mouth all too close to her ear.

“We should get moving,” she says.

She isn’t gentle when she pushes him back, but it’s been a stressful time for her, sure to be more nerve-wracking if they don’t get the gold, grab Henry, and get the hell out of here before she’s trapped beneath more than a kiss.

(It isn’t more than a kiss. It’s _just_ a kiss. Just one little kiss.)

“Emmet?”

(It’s her turn to ask the questions, isn’t it?)

Emma ignores him to look down the halls. Hopefully, he’ll follow. She can’t carry a trunk of gold on her own. Skating around the corner, she walks quietly but quickly to the treasure room. She doesn’t hear footsteps behind her, but as she peels back the doors, Killian is at her elbow, easing her inside.

Emma’s been here a billion times, this private study turned treasury after Midas turned all of his papers, books and furniture into gold.  She would watch as Midas turned different things to gold, sitting on his golden desk while Emma held Cassie in her arms, giggling as the magic at his fingertips spread across Cassie’s toy horse and cart, from the wheel to its spokes to the carriage all the way to the horse’s mane, turned pure gold.

It’s different without him. Colder.

(Or that could be the heat finally leaving her body.)

“Just grab something and let’s go,” Emma says quietly.

It’s an order. She hasn’t even won the game and she’s throwing out orders already. Emma laughs and the strained sound makes her shiver. She needs to be out of this room, out of this castle as soon as possible. Safely ensconced…on the same ship as him.

“Help me with this trunk,” Killian calls quietly.

Emma moves to him, but as she turns, she notices that on the seat of one of the formerly wood backed chairs rests the toy horse. Emma picks it up. Even turned to gold, the wheels still turn.

Quickly, she grabs the toy horse and stuffs it within her vest before taking the other end of the golden trunk Killian stands by. It’s so heavy and Emma has no idea how they’re going to get it out of the room, down the hallways and up the stairs.

“This was poorly thought through,” Emma says.

The _worst_ ideas always come to you at the worst times. Especially when you have a heavy trunk slipping out of your grip and the wheels of a horse drawn cart digging into your breast.

Carefully, Emma lets her end fall out of her hands.

“We need a distraction,” she says and glances around the room. If the cart is still here…

Fortuna _hasn’t_ abandoned her after all. In fact, Emma finds herself thanking the Goddess over and over again as she grabs up the golden ball and heads to the door.

“Emmet,” Killian calls but Emma ignores him as she peeks outside the room.

There’s no one in sight and she doesn’t hear any footsteps so she steps out of the room and skips around the corner, in the direction of the guards that passed them.

On the side of the little ball is a button that Emma presses before she throws it as hard and as far as she can. It hits the ground and starts to roll. A ticking noise and starts and grows louder the farther away the ball rolls. Luck stays with her because it reaches the stairs at the end of the hall and bounces. The frantic ticking is loud enough to drown out all sound.

Emma races back to the treasury where Killian has the door parted open, eyes wild as he stares at her.

“What the hell did you do?” she reads off his lips because she can’t hear his voice.

“We have 10 minutes and not even that much if they find the toy, so, let’s get this down to the carriage.”

“The carriage?”

“It’s much faster than lugging it up the stairs and back down. And everyone will be running towards the sound.”

“What about Victor, Hawke, and Henry?”

“We’ll get them after. It’s much easier to sneak around without the gold.”

“Alright, then, let’s go.”

It must be pure adrenaline running through her veins or the ticking of the clock driving her on because the trunk is much easier to lift now.

Either that, or it’s the fact that Killian’s lips are still red and that he keeps looking at her with those wild eyes, like he’s never seen her before.

“Gods help me,” she says. It isn’t like anyone else will hear her pleas.

Time passes strangely. One moment, they’re hurrying down the back hall, and the next they’re at their carriage, grunting as they heave the trunk into the backseat of the carriage.

“You stay here with the carriage,” Emma says. “I’ll go get everyone else.”

Unexpectedly, he doesn’t argue. Emma looks up at him, surprised, but can’t hold his gaze when he looks _stunned_ by her.

She licks out across her lip and he makes a sound. Just a small sound, but it’s enough to send her running back to the Castle.

He _groaned_ is all she can think while she races up the stairs and slips past guards, back to their rooms. There’s a guard outside their door.

“What’s going on?” Emma asks, breathing heavy from her run.

“The Prince wants to see you, Emmet.”

Emma panics. To hell with her weak heart, at least she has a strong knee and an even stronger elbow. She cripples him with a knee to the groin and knocks him out with an elbow to the face.

The door flies open as the guard tumbles back against it.

“Emmet?” Victor asks.

“We’ve got the gold. It’s time to go,” she explains.

She pushes past him into the room. Instead of finding it in a disarray, she sees their bags lined up on the bed, Henry sitting in between them.

“Well, that’s good. As you can see we’re already packed,” Victor says. “We assumed that you and Killian were up to something when that ticking noise started. Henry said it was good to be prepared, and when the guard showed up looking for you, we finished up as soon as we could.”

Emma nods. Not giving herself time to think, she takes her offered bag from Hawke’s hands and marches back to the door.

“What about the guards?”

Emma’s elbow throbs in response. “I’ve knocked out one, I can do another if need be. The faster you move, the less likely that need.”

None of them move so Emma drops the hinting and says, “Let’s _go_!”

Emma grabs Henry who says, “I didn’t think we’d be doing this like this.”

“Yeah…”

( _Yeah_.)

“I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye,” he says quietly.

Emma nods, stepping over the passed out guard. “It’s better this way.”

“Right,” Hawke cuts in. “Because the rest of the guards should be coming up from that way in about a minute.”

Victor takes the lead, then, sprinting towards the Eastern staircase with his bags. Emma and Henry follow with Hawke urgently hissing at the back.

“Don’t fuck this up, Emmet.”

For some reason, Emma thinks of Killian’s lips.

She nearly trips over her own feet at the thought, which is kind of the perfect summary to her whole evening. One ridiculous trip after another.

Sure to be topped by one more if she’s _lucky_ , and lucky girl that she is they’re almost inside the stables when a voice has Emma and Henry toppling head over heels, bags cushioning their fall.

“Prince Henry!”

Cassie, in her nightgown and riding boots, stands over their fallen forms as Hawke yells. “You’re fucking this up!”

“What is going on, Henry?” she asks.

Emma clambers to her feet. Henry remains on the ground for a moment until Hawke yells again.

“Henry?” Cassie asks when he starts to edge away from her towards the carriage. “Are you stealing from me?”

“Yes,” Emma and Henry say at the same time as Killian says, “No.”

Emma isn’t looking at him, but she can imagine the look he’s giving her.

“Are you _thieves_?”

Killian sighs. “We’re pirates, and all apologies, Princess, but we don’t have time for this.”

Why Cassie hasn’t run yet is a question Emma would love the answer to.

“I’m coming with you,” Cassie announces. A sensible response to finding out that your prince companion isn’t a prince and is actually a pirate robbing you. Really, it is _truly_ the only response that makes sense.

“A pirate ship is no place for a princess,” Killian says softly.

Emma nods and keeps nodding. It’s better than any of the thoughts screaming in her head.

(Just nod, Emma. Nod away your worries and your troubles and the kiss you can still feel on your lips.)

(A pirate ship is no place for a princess and a pirate’s lips are…)

_Gods help her._

Cassie sniffs. Her eyes are wet and round.

“Captain, we need to get moving,” Victor says before hopping into the carriage. He leaves the door open for Henry which lets them hear his whoop of excitement easily.

“Nice job, Captain!”

“Yes, ah, Henry say goodbye to the princess,” Killian says.

Henry takes her hand. Cassie uses that opportunity to twist her head to the side and slap him in the face with her golden braid.

“That _hurt_ ,” Henry says.

They smile at each other, identical grins and identical wetness around the eyes. Emma can’t look at this. She turns around, but Killian’s standing there. He offers her a small smile.

She turns right back around.

“I have to go. You know, your parents will kill me. Your grandfather will turn me into gold.”

“You’re probably right,” Cassie says.

(Ah, young love.)

“But that’s okay, because one day, I’ll be back with my own ship to come and get you. A real ship,” Henry says eagerly.

“Lad, my ship _is_ a real ship.”

Emma shakes her head, and turns around. Ignoring Killian and Henry’s spat, she walks over to her horse. He must sense her… _everything_ because he shifts nervously on his hooves.

“It’s okay,” Emma murmurs, rubbing his neck.

He neighs again. _No, it’s not_.

(Emma agrees.)

Still, she hops up and takes her seat on his back. He neighs louder. At least he drowns out the last of Killian and Henry’s argument. When she turns him around, Cassie and Henry are leaning over each other again, Cassie’s hands fisted in Henry’s shirt.

“Alright. You have to promise me,” Cassie says.

“I promise you. I, Henry Swan, will come back for you, Princess Cassandra.”

_Henry Swan_. She was right. It does have a nice ring to it.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Emma says from her spot atop her horse.

“I trust you, Emmet. You’re a true gentleman,” Cassie says.

“And _I’m_ not?” Killian scoffs.

“You’re a pirate,” Cassandra explains.

“And Henry?”

“He’s a prince.”

“Captain. Our time is running out. We should get going before our lives end up the same,” Hawke shouts from the front of the carriage.

“Fine. Leave me. I’ll just tell them these pirates tried to kidnap me,” Cassie says.

Emma raises her eyebrows. “Princess Cassandra?”

“It’ll give you at least an hour delay before they actually chase you. My father will be more concerned with my safety.”

“That’s clever,” Kilian says with an admiring smile at Cassie.

(Her mother in beauty and spirit. Kathryn would be proud.)

“I’ll miss you,” Henry says.

“I’ll miss you more. Now go before I have to make my father arrest you.”

She kisses him on the cheek. Well, there goes the whole ‘no actual wooing’ plan. Henry’s cheek is so red, it’s as if she slapped him instead.

Cassie is just as red, but a little more capable of thinking it seems because she runs off, screaming. “Help! Help me!” while Henry stands there, touching his cheek.

“It’s just a kiss,” Emma says quickly. She doesn’t look at Killian.

(I can’t see you. You can’t see me.)

“Into the carriage, Henry. Now.”

Following Killian’s orders, Henry finally climbs into the carriage and closes the door behind him. Hawke takes off as soon as the door slams shut, the horses and wheels of the carriage practically screaming underneath the weight of his urgency.

Emma wants to follow. More than anything, she just wants to take off after him and hope Killian follows behind. She really wants to only care about herself and just _go_ , but instead, she turns and waits for him to climb onto his horse and nod at her.

“Emmet, I -” he starts.

“Let’s go,” she says.

She doesn’t look for him to follow when she sends her horse flying down the paved road. Emma knows he’s right behind her. She can feel him.

(Right there, burning on her lips.)


	10. Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another massive chapter. This one was very difficult to write. Next chapter will start Part 2 of this fic and will be Killian's POV, so look out for that. I hope you enjoy this and let me know what you think!

They only stop once. It’s been night for long enough that Killian deems it safe to pull the cart to the side of the road, where someone has cleared a small pathway into the forest.

“Probably for…encounters just like ours. We are not the only smart thieves on these roads.”

‘Smart thieves’ is not what Emma would call them. Lucky thieves, perhaps. Dangerous idiots would suit them better.

She stays on her horse longer than necessary because she feels safe there. She can sprint at any time. Her horse backs up nervously on its tired feet and quietly whinnies. With a careful step, Emma jumps down from the horse. It isn’t fair to him. He’s carried her this far, it’s time for her carry herself for a bit, burdens and all.

_Burden_ and all.

Spending the ride just trying to breathe – with the wind racing through her lungs and her horse’s rough gallops shaking her bones –  hadn’t given her much time to think. Normally, she would be grateful, but it just leaves her feeling unprepared. She’s afraid what she’ll do if instinct takes over this time. As unsteady on her feet as she is in her head, it wouldn’t take more than the crackle of leaves to make her swipe out at someone – or just the call of her name.

She tenses, prepping herself for it, but finds everyone too busy prepping themselves for a quick rest to pay much attention to her.

“Who’s taking first watch?” Victor asks on a yawn.

“Not you,” Hawke says.

He follows with a yawn of his own seconds later, and Henry’s yawn is louder than them both, echoing out of the open carriage door.

“I’ll do it,” Emma says. She won't get much sleep anyway. All she needs is to rest her legs. Besides, she doesn’t think she can take Killian watching over her.

(Sleeping with one eye open isn’t so helpful when you’re trying to avoid someone’s gaze.)

“Good, good,” Victor says, waving his thanks as he lays out a bundle of clothes on the ground.

Henry’s snores start, soft and slow. They’ll be louder soon, loud enough to wake the whole forest, but not Hawke and Victor it seems. Hawke lays down beside Victor, close to the cart and their eyes flutter shut even as Emma leads her horse towards it.

“Hey,” she says to him, looking into his large brown eyes. “I’m not going to tie you too tight in case we have to run, so please don’t wander off. I’m too tired to chase you.”

The horse snorts. So does Killian. Leading his horse over to hers, he ties him up in a similarly loose knot.

“Emmet. Can we speak?” he asks quietly.

Henry’s snore sounds over her ‘um,’ which allows her time to recover.

“We _are_ speaking,” Emma says.

(Smooth recovery.)

Running his hand over his horse’s back, he dips his head in a sigh. Emma takes a moment to check the knot before she says, “You should get some sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour? Unless you want Victor or Hawke to take second watch.”

“I’ll take first watch with you,” he says. “We can wake Hawke after.”

Henry’s snore doesn’t drown out her wordless protest this time, it just adds to it like a particularly drawn out ‘ah uh.’

(Even smoother.)

“If you insist,” Emma says because to hell with everything – they kissed, it happened, Emma’s pretty messed up about it, but what can she do?

_Sorry, I don’t even want to look at you because, even now, your lips are still red and I want to lick mine every time our eyes meet._

(What a beautiful line. Fit for the greatest of romances.)

It’s too warm to start a fire, but if they’d had one, this would be the moment where she’d duck her head into it.

They’re probably going to _speak_. (No, that’s not a double entendre. Get your mind out the Kraken’s gullet.) It’s too soon. She hasn’t prepared. Hell, she barely has had a chance for a breath.

Speaking of…she takes one in, inhaling the clean forest air. She breathes out and gets a good look as to where they are. The trees enclose them, just enough to be an open embrace of trunks wide enough to hide in and boughs tall enough to shroud the sky.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Killian asks.

He needs to stop doing that. Asking her questions that sound like…

(No, it’s not double entendre.)

“I haven’t had a breath since we…” She clears her throat. Now, of all times is not the time to brave the truth. “Pulled the heist.”

He sucks in a breath as well. Emma takes that moment to _not_ watch the way he swallows around the air, but to fall to the ground instead, uncaring about the sprawl she lands in. Her legs are aching with fatigue, the kind that even a few hours of sleep won’t heal. Killian sinks down beside her, looking back towards the road.

When he turns to face her, Emma hastily looks away. She isn’t issuing invitations to more lingering stares.

"Neither have I. Are you sure you don't wish to sleep? I can handle lookout on my own. As the Captain, I -"

"Are you the Captain, though?" Emma trundles right past the way out of the conversation he extended to her. Her sense left behind in the past where playing that game seemed like a good idea, she adds, "The game is still undecided but I do believe I won. You asked two questions."

"I did."

He doesn't smile or smirk or even give her a lingering stare. Nothing expected. He closes his eyes and says, "You know Emmet, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

All Emma's hairs stand on end. His tone is far too serious.

"Tell me?" she asks, voice wavering, too tired to manage her reactions.

"I had wondered what other tales are in your book. What other stories I might be a part of. So, I thought it best to tell you mine –"

Emma can't do this. Talk about their kiss, yes, she can do that without dying (probably). Hear any more of his secrets? No, she can't. She can't have him share more pieces of himself when she can share nothing, when all she does is collect secrets, a hoard growing in size with every moonlit confession.

She squints at the tree line, unable to see the moon through its cloak of dark green leaves. With darkness all around them, she feels like a thief – a pirate, taking all and giving nothing back.

Cruelty rakes her words, diplomacy gone the way all things do: south.

"I'm sure there are none. The book gets rather boring in its tales, and you are not boring. Besides, as I've won the game -" She falters but does not cringe. "I'm the Captain here, so I'll be telling _you_. Go to sleep. I can handle this myself. I'll wake you in an hour."

She isn't the Captain when she stares him down. She is Princess Emma, making an order that no one would dare question.

(She's also scared that he will.)

"Alright," he says, shoulders dropping in defeat. "Wake me in an hour."

Settling down beside her, he stretches out, back turned to her probing gaze. It is a while before his breathing evens out, the rise and fall steady enough that she can finally steady her own.

She wakes him in two hours, something about the tight lines in his slumbering form keeping her awake even after her watch ends.

-

It isn't until they reach the ship and nearly get blown away by the crew’s cheers that it really sets in. Hits her like a sword hilt to the head that she kissed him. Emma – _Emmet_ had kissed _his_ Captain.

A new list of facts emerges as Emma clutches her horse's reins and tries not to panic.

  1.       Emma kissed him and she enjoyed the kiss. In _fact_ , it was the best damned kiss of her rather short, now that she comes to think about it, life.
  2.       Killian had kissed her back and he'd enjoyed it. Enough so that _he'd_ …she wasn't thinking about that.
  3.       Following up Fact Two, Killian kissed Emmet and yet, has not lost his head over it.



Hypothesis #1: Killian likes Emmet.

Hypothesis #2: Killian likes guys.

Hypothesis #3: Uh...he likes guys and girls?

Scrap Hypothesis #3 because she can't (won’t) test that. Scrap hypothesis #3 because she needs to catch herself before she falls any further into this pit she keeps digging. Dragging herself six feet under this – this _infatuation_ that makes her bite the inside of her cheek in a futile attempt to halt the memory of his lips on hers.

Worse, it does nothing to stop her from thinking of that night in his cabin. She wishes it never happened. Hell, she wishes she’d never read that damned “guidebook” at all and let it trick her into believing that she could handle this life, that she could _want_ this life.

She doesn’t want this, or rather she doesn’t want this mounting confusion and this gnawing ache in her chest for Henry _Swan_ ’s enthusiasm, Victor’s drunken smile… and Killian’s grin-crinkled gaze.

She _wants_ to stop thinking of him like that: “ _And_ Killian.”

(Emma and Killian.)

She wants to stop thinking altogether. It’s a wish she shares with the crew because they’re already carrying casks of brew across the deck, heaving them high in a celebration.

“Hear, hear!” someone shouts.

(Hear, hear to what?)

“Aye!” Killian shouts.

This non-conversation has left her lost, so Emma stills her horse’s trot and descents. Voices rise and fall around her with a joviality running through them that she doesn’t share.

“Emmet!”

She jerks up at her name and finds Henry running towards her, still in his princely coat and pants. Finally, a smile settles on her face at the mess of his hair, one side flattened to his head and the other tugged up like he’d pulled it in his sleep.

“We did it!”

He’s as surprised as her.

“Yeah, we did.”

She takes a step towards him and sways. Henry frowns and reaches out to steady her before she falls.

“You should’ve slept in the cart with me,” Henry says, still frowning.

“Is it your turn to chastise me? Has the student become the teacher?”

Henry grins. “Not yet, but I _am_ the Prince. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Princes never know what they are talking about,” Emma says.

This isn’t just a fact. This is law: tried, tested, and proven.

“Really?" Henry asks, and she must sound convincing because there isn't a note of sarcasm in the question. She really _does_ feel strongly about know-nothing princes.

"Really. I suppose an exception can be made for you. You are a pirate too."

"And pirates know more than princes, definitely," Henry says. "They have better stories."

Emma needs a lie down, a long one that she never wakes up from.

(Would Killian consider his story _better_?)

"Emmet, I think you should sleep. You look kind of sick. Should I get Victor?"

Emma shakes her head and then shakes it again when Henry reaches up to check her head with the back of his hand. The only fever she has isn't treatable, at least not by Henry or Victor's hands.

She blanches at her own damn thoughts and gods above, she set herself up for that one.

(Gods above, please don't read my mind.)

She hopes Apollo doesn't take that as her favor because she isn't letting him get off that easy.

The sunlight brightens for a second, almost blinding.

(Favor not granted, then.)

“Don’t get Victor,” Emma says. “I’m not ill and I shall be fine after I’ve had some rest. It has been a long day.”

“Two days.”

Emma laughs. “Yes, you’re right. Two days and I had to practically carry that trunk all by myself,” she exaggerates. “I am beyond worn out.”

(In more ways than one.)

Panic doesn’t seize her until after Henry finally takes his chance to press the back of his hand to her forehead and determine for himself that she isn’t sick. It’s as she’s leaving him with her horse, his hand running over its black mane that she feels the first pangs of a newly familiar clenching in her gut, and when she slips past the gathered crew down to her bunk, it nearly fells her, cutting into her lungs and choking her with “Three days left, three days left.”

What she wouldn’t give for some sleep, but with the panic at its peak, sleep is as elusive as silence on this ship. The creak of stampeding feet keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the doorway in expectation. Their small party hadn't bothered to ask the specifics of her and Killian's unexpected heist, but they were with them enough of the journey to be uninterested in that. The same would not be said for the crew left behind.

It would be easy to weave a tale that didn't involve their...moment but if it didn't match up with Killian's it would be sure to make the men (the ones sober enough to remember - so only a handful of the crew) suspicious. As gossipy as they are, it will be worse than a kiss that they'll surmise - creativity is a specialty of theirs, their encounter with Circe is proof of that.

Best case scenario: they'll assume Emma slayed some more trolls

Worst case scenario: she'll actually end up admitting the truth in a frustrated attempt to end their incessant questions.

She sniffs, ducking her head between her knees. At least that wouldn't be a lie, but the truth is more dangerous than the lie.

Suppose she did reveal herself to them: She knows how this one ends, and it is not with a gleeful kiss from her princess. Or is she Jasmine in this scenario? The Princess to grab her...pirate?

Not a good comparison to be sure. Neither is her inspiration. Mulan ran towards her duty, to prove herself worthy and capable. What has Emma proven but poor judgement, arrogance verging on stupidity, _stupidity_ and ignorance and everything in between?

The truth would be...no, the truth _is_ that Emma has only one path that she can follow from this point forward. Keep to the lie until it no longer matters.

Truth is, she is isn't Mulan. She isn't going off to battle to save her kingdom, the only battle to be fought within herself, and she already knows who has won.

She stares at the doorway in bitter acceptance, her head resting on her knees until she finds herself blinking awake in a hot sweat that she shakes off with a grimace.

It feels like night. The hours of sleep have done her legs a service. They barely crack when she stands, the burn faded to manageable.

Her stomach rolls at the scent of Colonel Pain's stew but she bypasses the dining quarter to the upper deck where her legs start to tremble again with a fatigue brought on by the moon hanging low in the sky. It reflects off the waves lapping gently at the side of the boat, catches in her eye, Artemis' arrow carrying a message in its light: two days more.

Her eyes find a pair of birds conversing on a street lamp. Ordinary birds whose conversation, the bits she can make out, are a familiarity that has her longing for her parents.

If she calls out for her mother, she has no doubt that bird will come flying to answer.

Two days more and she won't have to.

The thought settles in as well as Killian's step into her. She knows him by his shadow and his whispered curse as he rocks back on his heels to keep from falling into her.

"I believe congratulations are long overdue," Killian says.

His touch is unsure, fingers barely brushing her bicep. He draws away fast, too. The uncertainty anchors Emma in her place - somewhat. She moves just enough to face him.

(No more running, remember?)

"Congratulations?"

He clears his throat. "For your work with 'Prince Henry' of course. He charmed the Princess so well, we could've had a new member of our crew if we wanted. She certainly wanted."

(How familiar.)

"Henry is naturally charming. All I did was teach him how to play pretend."

Her whole body feels stiff when she says it, let alone the way her mouth draws out the words, teeth cracking. Biting.

("Playing pretend" will do that to you.)

Killian narrows his eyes at her.

"You sound..."

"Captain, the boys want to lift a toast to you," Smee says, jogging over to them.

His face is bright red and his eyes are glassed over. Emma’s surprise at Smee's drunken state mows over her unsettled emotions, at least for the moment.

"Right now?" Killian’s exasperation leads into a heavy sigh. Emma turns away so he doesn't see her smile.

"Emmet, I'll be back to..."

He doesn't finish. Emma knows why. It is the same reason her feet carry her away from the ship the second she hears his feet stomping down the stairs to the forecastle.

Apparently they didn't get the "no running" memo because she slips into one only a few seconds after she turns into the corner alley from the dock.

She has to force herself to stop, to pay attention to where she's headed...and where she's come from. Someone is following her.

Slow down. Deep breaths. Breath in, two, three. Breathe out. In and out.

She doesn’t even have her sword.

“Emmet, did you really think you could run off without me noticing?”

Emma sighs. Those deep breaths really _are_ good for something; she shakes off the fear, unclenches her fists, and even manages a smile when she turns around to face him.

“No, Victor. I didn’t _think_ I could. I _knew_ I could. At this point, I expected you to have your head doused in a barrel’s worth of beer, oblivious to anything and everything.”

Victor shakes his head and backs up to sit down on the stone steps of a local library. Is it considered irony if Emma’s attempt at escape has ended at the steps of a place she always considered an escape? Or is it just coincidence?

(Bad luck? Fate?)

She sits herself down beside him. She’s tired anyway. If she’s going to be unrelaxed, she might as well be that way while sitting.

“Drinking and I have become sort of synonymous, haven’t they? I know my continued sobriety is a shock, but don’t let that go to your head. I can’t cure a fried brain.”

Shifting beside him on the cold stone, Emma eyes him carefully. “So…you’re looking to cure me? Of what?”

“Whatever it is that has you running away from the ship like a cat out of hell?” he says, a querying look on his face.

Emma doesn’t turn away. If she did, he’d see her unease. Instead, she grins and says, “I believe the term is bat.”

“Bat? No, _cats_ are the hellish creatures.”

“Really? I think they’re rather cute.”

“You would.”

“Are you trying to call me a hellish creature?”

“Considering all we’ve been through since you joined the crew…” He throws her a smile. “No. I’m not.”

Emma lifts her shoulders and studies the sky. No stars tonight, just that low hanging moon. How nice.

“Considering all that, I would.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to dispel that notion. You’re the most fun we’ve had in a long while. Always a surprise, Emmet.”

Everyone keeps saying that, but she knows they’d be singing a different tune if they knew the truth.

(The name’s Emma, actually. Surprise, surprise!)

_Not an option_ , she finds herself thinking again as if the decision hasn't already been set in stone.

"I'm sure you men have all the fun without me. What with you about."

"The drunken doctor? Gets less than entertaining after a while. Especially when he starts crying into his drink, then it gets downright depressing."

Emma lays a hand on his. It always works with Henry. Always works with her.

"I'm glad the pity parties have stopped then."

“Parties?”

He chuckles, a maudlin sound to match the way his smile falters and he turns his palms up to lightly grip her fingers.

"Pity...gatherings?"

He laughs at this, hands shaking beneath hers.

"Your hands aren't so steady anymore," Emma points out. "Maybe you do need that assistant."

"Finally!"

"Not me," Emma says and then it's her turn to be maudlin. Not her even if she wanted to.

A grin cracks her sudden melancholy. She sure as hell does not want to.

"So, you've said no, Henry's taken. What am I supposed to do? Assist myself?"

"You're a talented doctor, Doctor. If anyone can do it..."

"That's what I used to think, too."

Another confession; Emma senses it before his mouth opens.

"I thought I'd be the greatest doctor of them all. The first doctor to do what no doctor - or man - has done before. I was going to bring man back to life."

(Well, that explains...nothing.)

"Necromancy?"

"Science," Victor corrects.

"Science," Emma echoes. Her response is slow to come, but soon she poses the question, "So, I'm guessing you didn't succeed."

"Science can do many things. Magic, too, but it can't bring the dead back to life...not like they were at least."

He stares off, the color drained from his face, bringing Victor back to a world of black and white.

"Who did you...bring back?" she asks softly.

"My brother." He chokes up and takes a quick breath to regain his composure. "His death was my fault and I thought I could fix it, but there are some things you can't fix. Some things you cannot heal."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Emma says.

"So am I."

They're silent as a couple slips out of a nearby lane, two women, a short redhead and a chubby brunette so engrossed in each other that they don't even notice Emma and Victor. Emma watches the giggling pair as the redhead lays kisses on the brunette's hand despite her numerous feigned protests.

"They're so full of life," Victor says. "Like you."

"I don't giggle," Emma says.

"I won't argue with you there because I value my face," Victor says. "But that's not what I meant anyway. Life...I thought it was something so readily given and taken, but it's more than that. It isn't simple chemicals, it isn't just senses and movement and muscle tissue and spinal fluid."

Emma pulls a face.

"It's feeling, intangible, unpredictable. Senses unattainable with a cutting blade. Things I will never be able to capture no matter how much I study."

"That was almost poetic," Emma says. "I've taken points off for mentions of spinal fluid and cutting blades."

"See? This is what I mean. Life is engaging conversation and witty banter. I could never bring you to life, Emmet."

"You don't have to. I have no plans on dying."

"That isn’t what I -” He narrows his eyes at Emma, bumping her shoulder in annoyance, which only deepens her growing smile. “You know what I meant, you...Well, you already have Henry for that anyway. You two are like brothers," he says on a wistful note.

"I'm sure you brought your brother to life just as well," Emma says, the perfect lead-into a necessary distraction.

She can't think of Henry.

The swan necklace tightens in a noose around her neck, ready to hang her with the future she offered so thoughtlessly. Henry Swan, the brother she always wanted.

(What's it like to wallow so deeply in your own misery that you neglect the misery you've caused others? What kind of arrogant, self-absorption does it take to offer someone a family you can't give them?

Tell us, Emma, what kind of person are you?)

"Right. We were awful. That's what it's like growing up in a world of black and white. It's hell, so we were hellions...but only where daddy dearest couldn’t see."

Sickened with herself, she says, "Tell me about him."

She doesn't seek a distraction with her question, not this time. Instead, she listens as he tells her of his little brother, the pride of the family, the military man who made his father proud and whose death made Victor abandon his life and his entire world for an end in a different land.

"Killian may have staved off my death for a time, but hell, he has his own..."

Victor doesn't finish the sentence, but with his hand still held in hers, Emma feels the twitch of words held back. Had that been what Killian was going to tell her?

(Does it even matter? You’re _leaving_.)

"Thanks for this," he says. "It was very cathartic."

He laughs and pulls his hands away to elbow her in the side. "Anything you want to get off your chest?"

His gaze is far more serious than his tone implies. Henry's smile swims in her vision and the swan necklace clings to her skin.

"Not at the moment. Ask me on the morrow, and perhaps I shall be able to oblige," she says tiredly.

Victor stares.

"Sometimes I forget how proper you are," he says.

She smiles. "Should I talk like Hawke then? Threaten to cut ye balls for looking at me, you devilish practitioner -"

"Of the medicinal arts," Victor finishes, remembering Hawke’s threat just as well as she does. He shakes his head in the negative. "Stick to your manners and we'll leave the violence to him."

"As you say."

As soul weary as she feels, she doesn't hesitate to smack him in the face when a moment later, he reaches beneath her cap to ruffle her hair.

"I thought we were leaving the violence to Hawke," Victor says, clutching at his cheek.

Emma shrugs, pushing him up off the steps. "I thought you valued your face. We were both mistaken."

"Right. Well, I suppose we should head back to the ship before even more violent types accost us."

She winks. "I'll join you in a moment. I've yet to finish my flight out of hell.”

"Cats don't fly," Victor teases. With a wave of his hand, he heads back the way they came.

Emma's smile falters the moment he disappears.

She doesn't think it was believable, her act, while it shouldn’t have even been a struggle. She should feel settled enough to joke with her decision already made. Yet the truth keeps fighting its way to freedom, ready to throw out apologies and beg forgiveness. ‘Keeping to the lie’ feels less and less right the longer this day wears on.

Keep to the lie and run away like none of this ever even mattered, when it matters so much that she’s practically pulling her hair out over it.

Her hair.

Why her brain draws a connection between that thought and Hypothesis #3 is anyone’s guess. Or any gods’ since they seem keen on reading her thoughts.

(Unless that’s all in her head. Like her thoughts.)

_Hypothesis #3_ , the one she isn’t going to test. Wasn’t going to test?

She leans back on her elbows, head thrown back. Last she looked, the moon was the only light in the sky. Now it has been joined by stars, countless numbers of them strewn out in constellations that Emma has never seen before.

It feels like a sign. Her own developing thoughts thrown out across the sky. The same stars in a different pattern - the same troubles, the same lies, but seen through different eyes.

Emma sits up and starts a slow amble towards the ship. As she approaches it, she can hear the happy cries of the celebration still in full swing. She doesn’t feel well enough to join them, but their excitement doesn’t bring anxiety.

Even the prospect of seeing Killian makes her pause in her tracks for only a brief moment. The prospect of seeing Henry is a little more worrying and she doesn’t have any trust in her luck, but she’s certain he’ll be in bed long before she gets there. Killian had been the one to send Henry off to bed more times than Emma had when they were at Midas’. No doubt, he’s done the same now.

Although she isn’t exactly sneaking past the crew, she ends up listening in like a sneak-thief, shadowed in the doorway. It’s Killian’s voice that make her stop in her tracks.

“Now, now, men, what woman would be able to spend more than a moment in your company without choking on your stench?”

Someone calls out, “What about yours?”

“Regular bathing will do wonders for you,” Killian drawls. “As it does for me. There are no shortage of women willing to spend _months_ in my company, as you very well know.”

The laughter covers up Emma’s hasty getaway, but she can’t ignore her own breath of relief, as much as she might want to. If this a night for signs, there’s one of them: she could never have left hypothesis #3 untested. At least (at least?) she didn’t have to plant another kiss on him to test it. Wouldn’t that be awkward? (Wouldn’t it?)

She fidgets with her bracelet but this motion she ignores in favor of her empty stomach. She sneaks into the galley, grabbing a bowl of stew before she goes back to her bunk.

Before she settles in, she finds her other assumption proven right as well. Henry snores into his pillow, sprawled out in a very unroyal manner.

“Sweet dreams, kid,” she says to the sleeping teen and climbs into her bed, balancing her bowl carefully. She has to move her bag to get comfortable and soup nearly slops into her lap when her hand hits the hard covering of her book.

Sipping at her soup, Emma uses her empty hand to pull out the book. _Tales of an Adventurer,_ the source of all her troubles - besides herself. She peels open the book and it falls open on the Little Mermaid, the pages folded over, most likely bent that way since the last time she opened it to fix the story.

To pen the _truth_.

She sets her bowl down on the floor beside her bed. Sitting back up, she digs into her bag and pulls out her pen.She opens up to a new page but pauses with her pen hovering over the paper. Indecision wracks her belly until she thinks of the bruise no doubt growing on Victor's skin, the bruise he'll have to doctor himself.

"Doctor Frankenstein," she titles it, and doesn't stop writing until his story is told. Another truth confined to its pages. The previous author liked their endings, but writing “The End” feels too much like putting Victor back in the place he entered her world in. She might as well pour the drink down his throat herself.

She leaves the ending blank, space to be filled with future adventures.

Ones she won’t be able to share.

-

With two days left, Emma feels Atlas' burden, the world and its reality weighing heavy on her shoulders when she steps back into the tavern they'd stopped in before.

She doesn't have any intentions of anything more than drinking her sorrows away. Toying with her bracelet, she sits herself down at and out of the way table by the open window and tries to look inconspicuous when she unsnaps the bracelet for the first time since she put it on.

Her arm feels so different without the familiar weight and pull of the thick blue band. Knowing the magic of the bracelet, she shouldn't be surprised at seeing her skin unharmed by the lengthy wear, but it is as if she never even put it on at all.

Staring at her wrist, she basks for a moment, a second's reprieve from the weight in her heart.

"I didn't expect to see you back here again."

Footsteps approach her table and Emma has no time to put the bracelet back on. She sweats, cold fear halting words in her mouth as the barmaid smiles down at her.

Her silence doesn't bother the dark-haired beauty and her radiant smile eases Emma somewhat.

"People rarely come back," she says. She bends over Emma and in a quiet whisper says, "I think it's Granny's food that sends them running. You must have a stomach of iron."

"Steel," Emma says on instinct.

The woman giggles, tossing back her hair until it falls like brown waves on her shoulders.

Emma's hand reaches up without thinking, to touch her own bunch of hair hidden under the cap. When she realizes what she's doing, she draws back. She forces a smile at the woman's curious look and says, "I'm Emmet."

"Red," the woman replies cheerily.

Emma stares at her red-trimmed dress and the small red flower woven into the crown on her head.

"Red? That is a name I never would have guessed," Emma says with all seriousness.

They laugh at the same time. Red's hair falls forward again as she clutches at the table, her red painted nails making Emma laugh just that little bit more.

Her heart lightens.

“Red, stop prowling around and serve like you’re supposed to!”

Emma jumps while Red’s shoulders rise in defiance.

“Granny?” Emma asks, vaguely recognizing the voice from her last visit here.

“Yes.”

Emma holds out her hands in attrition.

“I apologize for keeping you away from your work.”

“Don’t apologize just yet. You’re going to keep me away a little bit longer,” Red says, glancing back.

Wrinkling her brow, Emma says, “Am I?”

“Yes, you’ve just invited me to share a drink with you.”

Red looks just like Emma’s mother when she’s determined to have her way, a tight line in her jaw and her lips parted in anger.

“I have,” Emma agrees. “And what are we having?”

“A coffee. It’s from one of the new trade deals that have gone through. I think we’re importing the beans from South Misthaven.”

Her parents have been busy. Perhaps having Emma out of their hair had eased their ability to rule.

(She knows the thought to be a lie the moment she thinks it. Close or far, Emma has _never_ made their rule easy.)

“You pay attention to trade deals?” she asks.

“No, but Granny does,” Red says. In another whisper, she adds, “And so I hear it. Everyday. All day.” Louder, to the whole of the mostly empty tavern, she says, “I’ll be back with those coffees. Thank you for the invitation.”

Emma gathers herself when Red steps back towards the bar. Snapping her bracelet to her wrist, she bemoans this new development. She can’t drown her sorrows in a cup of coffee, but she can certainly bring them to life.

(She’ll have to tell Victor about this.)

Red returns while Emma’s contemplating asking for an ale instead. The two mugs are steaming and she has to admit that it smells delicious.

“I added some cream to yours,” Red says with an apologetic smile. “Habit. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Emma says, taking the offered drink.

It’s _hot_. Emma nearly burns her fingers setting it down on the table in front of her, while Red holds hers with an unnerving ease. She doesn’t even flinch when a little tips over the edge and splashes her fingers.

“I’m glad _you_ don’t consider it to be a failing. Granny already told me off for not asking you what you wanted in the coffee that I forced you to buy.”

She throws up a hand as she sits in the chair across from Emma. Shaking her head negatively, she sets her cup down.

“Not that she minds you spending your gold. ‘If men are going to resort to foolishness around you, the least they can do is pay for it.’”

Emma raises both eyebrows, hand covering her laugh. Over Red’s shoulder she can see Granny giving her the evil eye.

Just what she needs: more bad luck.

“I don’t believe coming to your rescue is foolish,” Emma says.

Red brightens. “That’s what _I_ said, but you know, _grannies_.”

Emma doesn’t actually know. Even her mother has never been domineering enough to watch them the way Granny is. As a Queen, you think she would be more imposing than Red’s white haired grandmother.

(Emma _misses_ her mother.)

“If Granny has her way, I’d be waiting tables all day, every day. Even during festival days, which is, by the way, the only time I ever get to escape from this all-consuming boredom.”

“ _All_ -consuming,” Red repeats, spreading her arms wide over her head.

Emma snickers. Lifting her cup, she blows hard enough that it’s actually drinkable. Still, sweat rolls off her fingers.

“You laugh, but it’s true. I could die sweeping the floor and probably not even notice.”

Emma swallows down her coffee. Red’s frustration pulls her back to her own and it is with a sigh that she pushes her coffee away from her.

“You want to get away, then?” Emma asks. “Trust me, it’s not as freeing as it sounds.”

“What are _you_ getting away from?”

Emma takes a step back, biting at the inside of her cheek before she says, “Nothing in particular. Just life, I guess.”

(Smooth.)

“Life,” Red says drily.

Where have all of Emma’s conversational skills gone? The way of her hair, left behind in that Lady’s Inn. The way of her dignity, left on the Siren’s beach. The way of her…

She could go on. She won’t.

“I’d rather not...talk about it,” Emma says.

(Rather not think about it either.)

Red nods swiftly, mouth rounded in understanding. “That’s okay. I get it. It’s fine, I can complain enough for the both of us.”

Leaning forward, she says, “I’m certain Granny wants me to take over the tavern, but every time I wait on a traveler, I want to join them. Their stories are so…”

“Intriguing?”

“Otherworldly,” Red says on a laugh. “Literally.”

“I’ve been to Oz,” Emma says suddenly.

She gets the desired effect (not that she knew she desired it.)

“ _Otherworldly_. Oh, please, what was it like?”

“Magical. You can taste it on the air, not choking but filling your lungs with...I wish I could describe it. And the colors, they’re so much better than any dream. It’s like someone painted the world or it sprung to life from a vision of euphoria.”

“Wow,” Red breathes. She leans back in her chair hard, nearly tipping the seat. Crossing her arms against her chest, she frowns, “This is what I’m missing. Ever since…”

This time it’s her head that tips back, her eyes closed against whatever vision she’s seeing that makes her bottom lip tremble.

Emma reaches out a hand, trying to offer Red the comfort she can't give herself. Miscalculating her balance, she pitches forward in her chair.

She would’ve slammed right into the table and spilled the last of her coffee. Should have considering her reflex reaction is to wave her arms in front of her, right in the path of _both_ of their coffees. Somehow, with a speed preternatural, Red catches her chair with her foot and manages to move both mugs away from Emma’s flailing arms.

“Whoa,” Emma says. She isn’t a waif, especially since joining Killian’s crew. She’s put on muscle tone and is probably a bit too weighty to fit into some of her tighter dresses now.

(She shudders; “Corsets will fix that,” her mother will say. Emma will miss the shape of her ribcage, and breathing. She’ll certainly miss that too.)

Still, Red effortlessly plants Emma back on solid ground with just a flick of her foot.

“It comes from all the lifting,” Red explains nervously.

“Trays of food?”

Defensively, Red crosses her arms again. “Hey! This is hard work, Emmet.”

Red’s cheeks darken into a pretty shade worthy of her name. A sure sign of a lie, as sure as the way she eyes Emma’s shoulder with interest.

“I have no doubt of that,” Emma says. Not wanting to push her into the truth, returning Red’s favor, Emma backtracks, “Ever since what?”

“There was an accident,” Red says automatically without looking away from Emma’s shoulder.

Another lie. And by the furrow in her brow, it's one that _she_ doesn’t even believe. _Huh_.

“But ever since then, she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. I understand completely. Still, I want…”

“More,” Emma supplies.

Red’s eyes shift back to her face. “You understand!”

(Too well.)

"Everyone's looking for something more, but what happens when they find it?"

Red opens her mouth and makes an ‘ahh’ noise. With a breezy smile, she says, "Sounds like you've given this _a lot_ of thought."

Emma shakes her head. "Enough to suggest that you do that _before_ you go chasing after whatever you think you want."

"How'd you get so wise at your age?"

Emma could laugh if she didn't have a mouthful of coffee to swallow down. Choking is not in her plans for today. Yet, she has to roll her eyes anyway. It's too much to be called wise when she is anything but.

She is saved from that explanation - though saved may not be the right term for Henry's appearance in the tavern.

"Emmet!" he yells.

Emma looks from him to Granny glowering at her across the bar.

"Henry, how did you find me?"

Henry shakes his head, the universal sign of "You can't _really_ be that stupid."

"It was easy. I just asked if anyone saw the guy in the cap."

"Man, not guy," Emma corrects automatically.

Red laughs and Emma takes another sip of her coffee to cover her own. ‘The guy in the cap.’ They must not get many hat-wearers here.

(At least not in summer. You’re the only fool sweating their hair out under a hat.)

"I suppose that I'm needed?"

The prospect makes her fingers shake around the coffee mug. She sets it down so no one will notice. Not that they would know her nervousness for what it really is: excited anxiety.

She is being ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. If there is even such a thing, she is being it - half nauseated by the possibility _he_ called for her, half excited with hypothesis #3 playing dirty tricks in her head.

(Look here, Emma, he could be into you _as_ you. Isn't that great?)

(Don't you ever wish you could tell your own inner monologue to, as Hawke would put it, shove it so far that it phases out of existence?)

"Yeah, Smee wants you."

Thankfully, that’s Emma opportunity to "shove it." Calming herself a bit, she rises from her chair.

"Does this mean you're abandoning me to my boredom?" Red asks.

Emma nods. "It also means I'm leaving you with your gold. At least Granny should be happy, right?"

"No excuse for me to stave off work any longer _and_ gold? She'll be ecstatic - and look, she's headed this way."

"Granny?" Henry asks, scratching his head.

Lo and behold, Granny _is_ headed their way. Emma glances at Henry’s dirt smeared chin and his dusty hands and bared arms and smiles to herself.

"Up for another task?" Emma asks. "Although it won't be as fun as conversing with me. But more gold."

"Depends on the task."

Emma grabs Henry by the shoulder and says, "Get this kid a bath."

"Hey!" Henry says.

One eyebrow raised at Henry’s protests, Emma says, "And whatever he wants to eat. He can't clean that mess on an empty stomach."

"Do I have a choice in this?" Henry whines.

"Nope. Be good for Red."

"Oh, come on, Emmet. I'm not a child."

He shoves himself out of her grip and frowns at her. Emma’s stomach drops and her smile follows. It’s hard not to apologize right here and now when he’s glaring between squinted brown eyes and she can already see the look he’ll have when she’s gone.

(One step at a time, Emma. Back to the task at hand.)

Carefully, she says, "Which is why I insist that you be good, because you're old enough to make your own decisions."

He nods slowly, shrugging his shoulders up and straightening his back like she taught him to do when he was uncomfortable instead of his usual nose wrinkle - which he still does as he says, "Oh, well, right."

"Will you be back?" Red asks. "I'd like to hear more about Oz and actually finish a coffee."

She can’t imagine staying on the Jolly for more than a conversation without wanting to rip her hair out, roots and all. It’ll feel too much like settling back in and she can’t do that again.

"I will," Emma says. "Smee is easy to be rid of.” With a quick look to Henry, she says, “In the meanwhile, Henry can tell you all about his latest excursions."

"I can?"

They’d agreed not to talk about the heist outside of the ship, so she can understand his confusion - although she isn’t sure how _that’s_ going to work when they can barely get some of the crew to shut up about their latest infection.

"Yes, he can tell you all about _Ursula, the former mermaid._ "

“Former mermaid?” Red asks excitedly.

“Have fun, kid. I’ll be back,” she says, handing Red her purse.

Red looks down at her hand. “But you can’t!”

“Thank you,” Emma says sincerely, not to Red, but to Granny who has finally crossed over to them. Her glare is gone, replaced with something more curious and searching.

Emma doesn’t stay to see if she finds it. In a half-jog, she escapes the tavern and Granny’s gaze and moves through the fairly empty streets to the ship.

For a moment she thinks the whole ship is creaking beneath her feet, threatening to give way, until she realizes it’s just the snores of the mostly sleeping crew. She smiles widely. They’d worn themselves out, fully grown children staying up way past their bedtime.

When she finds Smee, he looks like he should be snoring with the rest of them. He keeps blinking his red rimmed eyes in an attempt not to fall asleep on his stumbling feet. She’s grateful when he takes a seat. She wouldn’t have been able to catch him if he’d fallen over.

“You called for me?”

“Yes.” Smee opens his wider, sweeping the room with his gaze. “Wait, where is Henry?”

“I left him behind at Granny’s Tavern. I’ll send him back when he’s done with his tasks there.”

“ _Tasks_?”

Emma sighs. “Don’t give me that, ‘I’m the taskmaster’ spiel this morning. Not when you’re barely awake.”

“Emmet, sometimes I believe you think yourself to be the Captain.”

(Not anymore. Her day passed while she was sleeping.)

Tactfully, Emma says, “No, I’m just looking to relieve you of some of your duties. I know how hard you work.”

He blusters. “Well - well, the Captain wanted me to give you your share of the gold.”

That her first thought is that _he’s_ avoiding _her_ now is indicative of her state of mind: completely unhinged.

"Oh, he isn't here?"

Chuckling, he says, "No doubt the Captain’s finding himself someone to seduce with his tale of struggle for Midas' gold."

Emma nods. Swallowing thickly, she agrees.

"No doubt."

This bitterness is new. It tastes funny in her mouth, like milk gone sour. She doesn't even _like_ milk.

(What you _like_ doesn't seem to matter much, does it?)

“Now, it isn’t coins. I don’t know why he didn’t just give you coins but he insisted that I give this to you in payment,” Smee says.

“Give me what?”

Smee grabs the satchel lying behind him and offers it to her. “Some silly gold toy. It'll be hard to fence.”

Emma opens the bag slowly. She hadn’t even noticed that she dropped it, but apparently Killian had picked up the horse and cart wherever it had fallen and saved it for her.

The wheel spins beneath her finger. Emma smiles, another wheel on her mind, Killian’s hands on it, spinning it up or down, she wasn’t certain at the time.

She still isn’t certain whether this is good luck or bad luck rolling across her forefinger, but she can’t help smiling.

“Well, it looks like he was right. You _do_ appreciate it.”

Emma meets his eyes. “I like gold,” she says, shrugging with a manufactured nonchalance. “Whether it's a silly toy or coins.”

“If that’s all…”

She trails off as Smee closes his eyes. A long beat passes before he’s able to reopen them and answer, “Yes, that’ll be all. Except I have to tell you that we’ll be setting off tomorrow.”

Emma freezes. “For where?”

“Anywhere not here. It’s too much of a risk to flaunt Midas’ gold in his own kingdom for very long, and the men do get restless.”

“Right,” Emma says.

She panics. It’s the only excuse for why she breathes a hasty goodbye and retreats - _not_ back to the tavern, but to the edge of the forest, a walk that takes almost as much time as it takes for her to regret her panicked reaction.

What is with her and running to forests when she’s upset?

(At least you didn’t run in the _opposite_ direction and decide to test your swimming skills instead.)

She stands at the edge of the dark trees. Just a step in and she could disappear. Forget thinking, she could find her way south. With an exchange of the toy currently stabbing into the palm of her hand for gold coins, she could buy some horses and make for her home - or better and worse, she could go back to her Uncle's and get a real, safe passage back home (and a very real chastisement worthy of her parents once they find out. If they don't already know. Frederick had been looking for _her._ )

She tosses these thoughts aside and steps away from the shadowy trees. That way doesn't look inviting, so back the way she came, back to the tavern, Red, her glowering Granny, and a hopefully clean Henry.

She doesn't know why she cares. Her parents were never ones, like a few of the noble parents she met, to declare "cleanliness is next to godliness." Her father had encountered Circe at some point and survived so he'd know about her pig farm. Plus, Emma had met Apollo the Frog. Cleanliness is not even close to godliness. Ridiculousness is much closer.

So, she must care because she _cares_. Henry is her family. She chose that, and so did he. _A mutual agreement._ The Emma of the past would welcome crawling around in the dirt with him. The Emma who's spent too much time covered in dirt wouldn't wish it on anyone save her worst enemies, especially not her fellow Swan.

Traipsing back to the tavern, she nearly misses him.

If she'd taken a different path, she would have. But as all roads lead back to the wolf's den, all her paths seemingly lead back to him.

"Emmet!" Killian calls, stepping into her path.

He looks her over, a _lingering_ gaze. When his eyes fall on her hands, he says, "I see you've gotten your gold. I thought you would like to have it back."

"You were correct," Emma says.

"And I thought..."

When he doesn't finish, Emma hesitates to meet his gaze. It is a perfect moment to escape the awkwardness of the situation. She should take it.

She _tries_ to take it.

"I promised Henry and Red I would get back to them.”

He starts to step aside. "Oh, right...wait, who is Red?"

"You sound concerned.”

He’s still in her path, and he looks the kind of worried that makes your grind your teeth and pull out your hair.

In fact, his jaw is clenched and there’s a vein throbbing in his temple.

(She feels kind of hot, the sun bearing down a bit too much.)

“About the prospect of my crew getting murdered by some man with dark intentions? Yes, I am concerned."

Emma presses her hand to her forehead, swiping at the sweat on her brow. She crooks a smile at him.

"I doubt she has dark intentions. Her Granny on the other hand..."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," he says, knitted brow giving weight to his words.

Emma has the sudden impulse to smooth it out with her fingers.

(Control your impulses, say all her tutors in a rather unmelodic chorus of dull voices.)

"It shouldn't. Hang on to this for me," she says, handing him the gold toy.

"Are you worried about robbery?"

"Not unless you count a self-robbery. Granny’s eyes, Killian, they would make even a pirate like you want to give up the goods."

He laughs. "Oh, I see now." His voice changes. Deepens, but becomes quieter. "Emmet."

Emma backs up, flustered by his change in tone. "So, I'll head back to them now. I won't keep you any longer."

She steps around him, but his voice calls her back.

“And if I wanted to keep you?"

Emma stills. Slowly, she looks around. "You can't."

-

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recognizes that Red and Henry are trying to pull her into their heated discussion about the pros and cons of flipping fins, but in the forefront are other conversations. Possible conversations. Goodbyes. Farewells worthy of them.

"Emmet?"

"Yes?"

"Are you enjoying another one of your travels or would you care to join us here?"

Emma shoots Henry a look while Red cackles into her drink.

"I haven't enjoyed any of my travels," Emma says.

"Liar, liar, dragon fire."

“Shush before you call Maleficent down on us,” Red hisses.

"Are you superstitious?" Henry asks.

Emma likes how he enunciates the word. He learned it from Victor as they laid across Henry's bed, teasing Hawke to near anger at their call upon the Old Gods.

"You won't laugh when they take the ship under and turn us into one of their demon spawn."

"Aye, mate, don't bring my ship into this. You don't do that,” Killian scolded, more furious than Emma had seen him since her godly excursion.

"Yes, quit it with the superstitions," Victor had said.

Henry's inquisitiveness about various superstitions had distracted her from attempting to steal one of Cassandra's gold rings from Killian's open palm.

She'd nearly succeeded, but Killian was not so caught up in their talk of Old Gods and Apophis' world eating habits. His hand had closed around hers and she'd turned red at the swift capture.

"Emmet, you're traveling again,” Red says, pulling Emma into the present.

"So, are you? Superstitious, I mean," Emma asks.

Red shakes her head. "No, but Maleficent is known to pop in here from time to time. She likes the pasta."

"Of course," Emma says. Part-time dragons-full time witches have to eat, too.

"Speaking of, you haven't touched yours. Just what are you thinking about that my wonderful company cannot distract you from?"

"Mine, too," Henry says, affronted at being left out.

"Futures.” Emma admits. “What are your future plans? I'm curious."

"I'm considering hopping on this ship of yours. Do you think your Captain would take me on?" Red says.

"A woman on a pirate ship? That's bad luck," Henry says.

How uncomfortably true. A giggle escapes her.

(So, she _does_ giggle. She'll have to apologize to Victor for that lie.)

"Oh, don't tell me _he's_ superstitious."

"He's smart," Emma says, considering the crew. "Half those men can barely breathe around a pretty woman, let alone handle their duties."

"So, you think I'm pretty?” Red says with a sly smile.

"Well."

Emma bores a hole into the table with her gaze and then frowns when Red just laughs, hard, body shaking laughter that fills the whole tavern.

"Don't worry. I'm not trying to steal your virtue, Emmet,” Red says, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Well, thank you for that service."

Emma huffs (and she puffs and she blows this whole tavern down.)

She has to forcefully remind herself not to tempt fate. She may have enough gold to pay for a few meals and Red's company, but not to rebuild a tavern - and she has done enough damage to her parents' Treasury to last her lifetime.

"Well, since stowing away on your ship isn't an option, I suppose I shall just remain here...and wilt away into nothing,” Red says mournfully.

"Like your flower?" Henry says, tipping his head to the red flower hanging sadly from her hair.

"Oh, I should get a new one," Red says. "I love this bush. Its flowers grow back in an instant as long as I keep it watered and I always do. It's too beautiful to let it perish."

Red slips out of her chair and in quick steps disappears behind the bar.

"I should go," Henry says. "Smee will be missing me."

Her response is out before he finishes speaking. “Stay a little longer, kid.”

"Why?"

Emma gives him the same “Are you stupid?” look he gave her earlier. "Because I enjoy your company?"

"I _know_ that but..."

Perceptive. He must've noted the desperation in her tone.

"Because," she says with a grin, "I want you to stay clean a little longer."

"You really don't have to worry, Emmet," he says, leaning in conspiratorially. "I won't let her steal your virtue."

(Her _savior_.)

She pushes him back. "Alright, let Smee have at you. I'm done with you."

Red returns, boots clicking to the sound of Henry’s laughter.

"So, you're his protector then?"

Henry closes his mouth abruptly. Grinning, Emma grabs him by the shoulder, tugging him to her. (Turnabout, fair play and all that good stuff.)

"My very own knight in raggedy armor,” she declares.

"Beware of dragons,” Red says. “They love their knights. A good snack before the Princess main course."

Emma clutches his shoulder a little tighter. "Yeah, all that skin and bones. He'd be only a snack."

"Compared to you, his, ah, Princess?" Red says, looking Emma over.

(What an _astute_ observation.)

"Emmet would make a great main course,” Henry says while wiggling out of her grip.

Betrayed, Emma glares at him. Innocence feigned, he sips at his coffee.

“So, obviously that's what's in your futures. Maleficent dinner.”

"You can join us as dessert," Emma offers.

"Thank you, but I prefer a future in which I'm not being picked from a dragon's teeth,” Red says, reseating herself.

Playing with the new flowers wound in her hair, Red adds, "But I'm thinking immediate future now. Emmet, tell me about where you're off to next. Maybe I'll catch up on another ship with sailors of a stronger constitution."

"I'm not sure," Emma says. "Smee said anywhere but here."

Henry pats her on the arm. "Smee was asleep. We're heading somewhere called Arendelle.”

Arendelle. Emma’s heard stories about the Queen and her sister, but she has never had the chance to meet the fabled ‘Ice Queen.’ Her childish desire to do so feels just like that now, _childish_. Impossible, too. Unless Queen Elsa decided to visit her kingdom.

Well, not _so_ impossible.

"And what will you be doing in Arendelle?” Red asks.

"I have not the faintest clue,” Henry says, obnoxiously posh.

"Piracy, I suppose,” Red says.

Henry’s voice deepens in true pirate fashion. "Aye, aye,” he says, nudging Emma with a deep wink.

"We're wicked pirates, we are,” Emma adds in the same tone.

"It'd be more believable with a peg leg or a hook for a hand. Or you know, a blood crusted sword."

"One, peg legs are surprisingly unwieldy. Two, hooks are actually really useful for alternate hand appendages. Three, gross,” Emma says.

(Three, disgustingly gross and bad for the sword.)

"Henry!"

The voice calls from the doorway, pulling in all their gazes to Smee's heavy form framed within.

Red sighs and stands while Henry scrambles to his feet to walk Smee out the door. "I guess you're being called home. Well, I should get ready anyway. It'll be a busy night when your crew finally awakes. You all make an awful racket."

"You should see them when they're being tossed about in a storm. That was mere silence compared to their screams,” Emma exaggerates.

"I'll keep that in mind," Red says. "Thank you for spending the day with me. It's been so long since I've had a...someone to talk to."

Emma can scarcely believe that with how friendly Red is, but the loneliness she sees in Red's smile is so familiar.

"Perhaps, I'll come save you this evening too.”

"The Knight to my Princess then?" Red teases.

"Well, it is better than being dessert."

Red laughs, twirling a finger in her hair. "Later tonight, then."

"Yes, later,” Emma confirms, watching as Red hurries off.

Emma stays just long enough to eat the last of her pasta. Maleficent has the right idea. It's excellent.

Agreeing with one of the ‘Witches to Avoid’. That doesn't bode well.

-

_Of course, it doesn't._

As Emma is walking the streets, visiting various shops just to pass the time and not return to the ship, night falls, faster than she suspects it should. Time has gone topsy-turvy, bending together to bring her day to a close faster than she wants it to end.

She remains on the streets despite this, a very big part of her too scared to go back to the ship or even the tavern where any number of them might be.

(She doesn't know how to say goodbye without saying it.)

Her ears prick, hair standing on end before she is cognizant of the beast behind her. Emma knows she shouldn't turn around. There are plenty of monsters you don't want to look in the eye, Medusa, sirens, basilisks. Cyclopes, too, because they're ugly enough to blind you.

Or so she's read.

She turns around and doesn't turn to stone. Her legs do turn to gelatin at the sight, but that doesn't stop her from running.

(When you see a wolf three times bigger than you and you don’t run, it’s your own fault if you end up as its meal.)

The thought - the _fear_ leads Emma into a sprint. The wolf must not be serious about eating her yet because she gets the chance to clamber up a tree, high enough that even her dangling legs aren’t reachable when the monster sized wolf stands up on its hind legs.

Which it does, scraping at the wood and shaking leaves down upon the both of them with its weight. Emma spits one out of her mouth, focused on the wolf’s yellow eyes. It keeps sniffing at her.

“Still haven’t determined if I’m good enough to eat, yet?” Emma asks.

Tempting fate, the question, but at least eaten by a giant wolf isn’t the worst way to go.

The wolf barks at her and shuffles down the tree to rest at its base. Fate’s sense of humor is as screwed as Hawke’s sense of smell for the wolf starts to circle the tree. With all of her father’s dogs, circling their ground is their first step to settling down to sleep.

For the wolf, it’s the last.

It digs down into the ground and tucks its head beneath its paws. Soon its sniffles turn to outright snores.

“Fuck,” Emma curses.

(It could be worse isn’t a thought that occurs to her. She isn’t completely stupid.)

\--

Sleeping in a tree is hell, pure and simple.

Not that Emma slept much with the wood digging into her bottom. She’s going to wear that pain for a while. Already as she climbs down from her least favorite bed to the woman lying beneath, it smarts in protest of her movements.

She _isn’t_ completely stupid. She has faced gods, goddesses, and wizards. There is no way that the still sleeping woman _isn’t_ both herself and the wolf.

She sees the dark hair shadowed over her face and the red flower crushed beside her on the ground, so of course, there is also no way that the wolf-woman isn't Red.

It makes sense in a way. This would be the third time that Emma's made friends with a human/creature.

(Yes, she is including Walsh. You can take the monkey out of the man, but Emma will never forget those red eyes.)

Red wakes and stands with an agility that has Emma's head spinning. With nervously widened eyes, she stares at Emma, hands half raised. Warning? Defense?

“You’re a werewolf," Emma says.

Silence passes and then Red coughs and says, “Only once a month.”

Emma laughs, expecting nervous fear to overcome her at this point. However, it looks like she can even manage to surprise herself as well as her crew sometimes. It’s with curiosity that she says, “How do you handle it? Having to keep this secret?”

Red breathes out slowly. "I make friends with travelers that don't seem to mind that I chased them up a tree the night before," Red says. "I'm really sorry about that, by the way. I recognized you but sometimes it's hard to stop my wolfier instincts that scream 'Friend! Play!'"

“It's alright, although my butt will thank you if that never happens again. I don’t imagine sitting for the next couple of hours.”

Red droops, but still smiling, she says, “And here I was going to invite you for another coffee. On the house, of course. And a meal. And my first born for not grabbing your pitchfork and chasing me through town.”

Emma pouts. "I don't even own a pitchfork, and I definitely don't want your firstborn. I have enough responsibilities without adding a child into the mix."

What awkward phrasing. _Into the mix_. She sounds just like the Blind Witch, eager to make a kid stew.

(How unappetizing.)

"However, I will take that coffee," Emma says quickly as the brightness of the day begins to creep in.

The _last_ day.

Her hands clamor for support but find only her bracelet to clutch at. She doesn’t consider the action. She just... _does_ it.

Tearing off her bracelet, she says, “My name’s not actually Emmet.”

“I thought…” Ruby wags her finger, stepping closer. She peers at Emma with growing excitement. “I _knew_ I saw your face change. And you, ah, definitely don’t smell like a guy.”

“That’s a relief,” Emma says, hand shaking. She nearly drops the bracelet, but instead tightens her grip around it, crushing it in her fist.

Red grasps Emma's hand, brows drawing together. "Why are you telling me?"

“I didn't want to lie to you, not after…” She smiles, puzzling out her next words in her own head. It’s the truth that follows, painfully spilled truth, "I'm tired of lying all the time. I just want to be myself today.”

She sighs and closes her eyes. _Only for today._

"You make it sound like you're leaving, and _not_ with your crew."

Emma remains silent.

"You _are_ leaving." Red fixes Emma with sad eyes. "But you only just came back."

"I gave myself a month to do this, and my month is up."

"A month to what? Roam around on a pirate ship? Emmet - I mean...what is your name?”

“Emma.”

“Emma, Emmet - how clever,” she comments. “Emma, do you _want_ to go?"

"I can't stay," Emma says with finality.

Red doesn't force her to say more. She squeezes Emma's hand.

It's stupid how easily she cries nowadays at these simple kindnesses. At the easy friendships. Something she had never imagined she'd have, something she didn't even know she wanted. A friend to hold _her_ hand like she’d hold theirs.

Ursula would like Red.

"Are you going to tell your friends?"

Emma shakes her head. "I can't do that. Knowing who I truly am is too much risk."

"You told _me_.”

"It’s not just that I’m a girl. It’s a bit more complicated than that." Red looks unconvinced, so Emma continues, “Besides, I trust you.”

( _Liar,_ a voice screams. _You haven’t told her you’re a princess yet._ )

Werewolf meet Girl Disguised as Boys…that’s enough for one moment before breakfast - and coffee.

"And you don’t trust them? You spent a month with them Emmet - Emma."

Emma thinks of Victor's hands shaking in her grasp. His brother, dead in his arms. Henry's grin as she called him her fellow Swan, the brother she always wanted. Killian's confession in the dark of his cabin, the knife wound on his skin.

Words she recorded in her book – their names, their stories. Lies she spoke, truths half-told.

Trust not shared.

She blinks back the burn in her eyes. "It's a secret best kept."

"Alright, but I'm sensing there is a 'but' to this."

Emma chuckles. "Can you sniff that out as well?”

“No,” Red says. “But you have that face.”

Not bothering to argue with the assessment, she says, “I can’t tell them, but I just had the idea -” (Literally, just in this moment as she is framing this sentence) “- that perhaps I could be myself…as someone else. Not as Emmet, but as a girl.”

Red’s eyes glint, her mouth twisting in concentration. She may not be able to sniff out Emma’s emotions, but she certainly manages to figure Emma out anyway (faster than Emma figures herself out, even) because she says, “Which one is it? Wait, let me guess.”

“Don’t guess,” Emma insists, but Red waves her off.

Leaning in close, she whispers, “It’s the Captain. Of course it is. Which makes sense because he was barely able to keep his eyes off you the last time you were both here.” She grins down at Emma, but the grin slips into a frown. “Is he…”

“Is he what?”

In a blurted whisper, Red says, “Only attracted to guys? Because that would probably put a hitch in your plans -”

Emma jerks Red to her. She really needs that coffee _now_.

Dragging Red along the path they both ran the night before, she kicks at the paw prints in the dirt, clearing them away. She isn’t going to be the reason Red gets chased down by villagers wielding pitchforks.

“I don’t have _plans_ , and no, he isn’t,” Emma says. Kicking at another paw print, she forgets herself enough to let slip: “I heard him talking about...I’ve seen him with women.”

Red snorts while Emma tries not to punch herself for the confession.

“But you don’t have plans? You have plans.”

(Not just for _him_.)

“ _Yes_ , alright, I have plans. I just want to…I don’t want to talk to him or _them_ as Emmet. I want to be…well, I can’t be Emma, but I can still be _me_ , better than Emmet can be me.”

(What a mouthful.)

“So, you need a bath, a change of outfit and a way to bring him here.”

“The former, definitely,” Emma says. Insisting again, she says, “ _They_ can come later.”

Red hums a tune, something Emma recognizes as this: Red understood her hint and is undoubtedly going to ignore it.

-

“Don’t drag Henry into this,” Emma says as she combs at her hair, ever so gently disentangling the knots from her still wet hair.

“I’m not going to drag him. Besides, he volunteered to help me and my friend make an acquaintance with a pirate captain.”

“ _Red_.”

“Okay, _princess_ , you don’t have the high ground here. This isn’t Castle Misthaven.”

Emma shuts her mouth, glaring at Red’s bedroom wall. Red’s right. She doesn’t have the high ground anymore, not after Red snorted her coffee as Emma admitted the more “complicated” side of her situation.

“Are you trying to lay me out with secrets today?” Red had said, clutching at the table in (highly, overly exaggerated) astonishment.

“You chased me up a tree,” Emma had pointed out to Red’s annoyance.

With narrowed eyes, she'd said, “At least I didn’t _eat_ you,” as if she was reconsidering that action.

“How is that comparable?”

Red hadn’t responded in words, just lifted both her eyebrows in an expression Emma would like to call, ‘Who died and made you Queen?’

No one, not anytime soon.

“So, what are you going to do with him after he gets here?”

Shoulders slumping into the poor posture she's become too acquainted with, Emma says, “I don’t really have any idea.”

“You said you had plans."

Emma comes _so close_ to reminding Red that it was she who declared Emma had plans. Instead she bites her tongue - on that point at least.

“I don’t have an itinerary for this - I just wanted to talk to him. That’s all.”

(Is that all?)

Red thinks along the same lines. “Really?" After a quiet moment, she says, “And what are you going to talk about? Your kiss?”

“How did you -” Emma twists to look at Red, which twists the brush in her hair, wrenching strands out of her head. She recoils, fingers massaging her abused scalp.

“So, you _did_ kiss him,” Red says.

She has the smile of the cat that ate the canary. More aptly, the wolf that swallowed the girl and left Red behind.

Emma turns back around. “I did,” she says succinctly, with the kind of voice that broaches no arguments or questions.

Or so it shouldn’t, but Red opens her mouth anyway.

(Emma will have to work on that.)

“It must’ve been a great kiss. The kind that sweeps you off your feet.”

Emma furiously brushes at her hair even though it hurts. The pain is a welcome deterrent, stopping her from responding to Red’s comment with anything but a wince.

“Or was it the other kind?”

Curiosity always seems to get the better of her, no matter how hard she tries to fight it, whether it be with a sword or a hairbrush.

“What other kind?” Emma says.

“The kind that makes you want to throw him down and -”

She’d rather throw herself down right now. Right into that ditch she’s been digging, have Red seal it up so no one can see the face she makes when she says, “Okay, no - neither. It was neither.”

Humming cheerily, Red says, “You’re lying, but that’s okay.”

Emma isn’t. She _didn’t_ want to throw him down.

(Staying right there would’ve been just fine with her.)

“For a pirate, you are very modest, and for a princess, you curse worse than any of the pirates I’ve ever met.”

Emma stops mid-hissed tirade to 1) breathe and 2) consider Red.

“Should I be worried that you’re more invested in this than I am?”

(Impossible.)

“I find that very hard to believe. As your friend, I’m invested in making sure that your last day is perfect, even _if_ you’re leaving me behind to do whatever it is princesses do.”

Emma drops the brush to her lap, folding her hands over it.

“We do our duty,” Emma says.

“Well, that sounds just about as fun as sweeping the floors.”

“It can be,” Emma says weakly. She shakes away the flood of memories of utter boredom, and smiles as she says, “Some diplomatic engagements can be truly enlivening. Especially when my mother’s as bored as I am. We developed a code.”

Intrigued, Red asks, “A code?”

“The ‘I’m so bored, we need to move this conversation faster before I nod off’ code. We call it ‘Releasing the Birds.’”

Emma laughs, spinning her chair to face Red fully. She has her hands clasped together, the perfect audience.

“She’s better at the mimicking than I am. It truly sounds like a bird’s escaped into our great hall, but I can continue the tune well enough while she’s making excuses for those ‘silly birds.’”

"And what happens when no bird is found?"

Emma grins. "That's why we call it releasing the birds because we call some of them to us in the birdsong."

"Like magic."

"Like a different language, to be precise. Neither of us can do magic,” Emma clarifies.

"Are you sure? Because from all the stuff you've survived this past month, I'd have to say there's something magic about you,” Red says, standing to move towards her closet.

She pauses to throw open the window she'd closed when Emma had taken her bath, and while the sun lights down on Red's bed, Emma speaks.

"My poor luck seems magical to you? I'm cursed."

"Lycanthropy is a curse. At least you can leave your disguise behind," Red says sharply, tearing open her closet. Tone softening, she apologizes to the door. "I'm sorry. I..."

Emma leans forward in her chair, staring at Red's strained back.

"Is this about your accident?" she asks.

Red turns. "You remembered," she says, brow bent.

"Well, it seemed important," Emma says.

“It’s in the past,” Red says. “But sometimes it feels like the past was the only place I _had_ a future.”

Red sighs, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her skirts. With a weakened smile, she says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so glum. It isn’t going to make this evening perfect if I’m all ‘I’m a monster, look at the wreckage of my life.’”

“Red…”

She doesn't allow Emma to push the point, and as much as she wants to try and help, Emma falters. It isn't her battle to fight when hers has still yet to be won, despite what she thought only two evenings ago.

“So, tell me more about your mom. The Queen," Red says excitedly.

“She’s great," Emma says.

(A poor answer if there ever was one.)

“Great?”

“Well, what is there to say, really? My mother is a wonderful mother. My father is the same. Well, not a mother, obviously, but a wonderful father.”

“Well, since you're so detailed about them," Red says, probably with a doll of her eyes that Emma can't see with her face turned to the closet full of dresses. "Tell me about your friends at home.”

The first face that pops into her mind is Victor, which she would've considered a nightmare weeks ago.

Weeks ago the only friends she had...

“My parents - they’re my friends. Friendship is hard for a princess.”

“It doesn’t seem that hard," Red says into her closet, voice muffled.

She sneezes on dust and digs a little deeper into her closet.

“It’s hard for me," Emma corrects.

“Is it really? You made friends with me easy enough."

Emma laughs at this.

“ _You’re_ easy, not me, and making friends is simpler when you’re pretending at someone else.”

Finally exiting the closet with dresses under one arm, she places her empty hand on her waist to say, “There has to be a basis for it somewhere, some innate part of you that’s good at this. You’re yourself right now, and you’re doing fine.”

“Am I?” Emma asks, surprised.

“Sure you are. I’m still here, aren’t I?” Red laughs and it must be at Emma’s face because she touches her hand to her mouth in humor as she smiles at Emma. “Yes, Emma, you’re taking to this whole friendship thing very well.”

Emma's chest clenches up in fondness that will last, she knows, even though her visit won't.

“Well, that is good information to note. I’ll add it as part of my skillset.”

“Do you actually keep a list of these things?”

“No,” Emma lies, thinking of her “Things You Can Only Learn through Suffering” list and the one penned on loose paper beside it - “Things I Have Learned (Through Suffering).”

Red doesn’t believe her for a second. Dropping the dresses to her bed, she exclaims, “You have to show me your list. Do you have it on you?”

“I don’t.” Red lifts an eyebrow. Glaring, Emma says, “Well, I won’t and no, I don’t have it on me. It’s in my bag at the ship.”

“I just _have_ to see this. Henry is bringing along your bag, so I suppose I shall get my chance. Before I see this list, would you care to share any other skills?”

“But surely I don’t have as many as you do”

“That is true,” Red says. Seconds later, she exclaims, “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

Red pulls a dress off the bed, of a green and blue color remarkably similar to the clear sea surrounding her town.

“It’s just short enough to fit you,” she says.

Emma nods. The dress looks like it’s never even been worn. Caught by a melancholy, she has to feign a smile when Red looks at her and says, “So, tell me more about these fun times at Castle Misthaven.”

“You have to stop calling it that,” Emma says, smile falling into something easy and real.

-

She almost doesn’t make it down the stairs because it’s been so long since she has worn a corset that she’s forgotten what it’s like to not be able to breathe.

“Don’t stop,” Red says, shooing Emma on her way.

“I might not have a choice if I pass out,” Emma says when she makes it to the bottom.

She might not have a choice whether her legs move or not because at the sound of the chattering and excited group in the next room, suddenly they feel like actual gelatin (not the kind Red's wolf out brought, but pure goop.)

“I’ve seen your skillset,” Red says, softly teasing. “You’ll be fine, just breathe.”

“Impossible.”

Red grabs her hand, pushes open the swinging door with her elbow, and tugs her through the doorway. Emma gasps, the sound drowning in the sea of noise.

(So, she _can_ breathe.)

“Oh, Henry’s coming this way,” Red says, waving at him as he weaves between the crowding tables.

Emma remembers only at the last moment to pull off the swan necklace, nearly elbowing Henry in the face as she stuffs it into the pockets of her borrowed dress.

(Dresses with pockets are blessings.)

“ _You’re_ her friend?”

Henry looks at her skeptically. Emma makes sure to hold his gaze. If she looks away, she’ll seem weak and his skepticism will turn to outright suspicion, and if it turns to that, Emma isn’t sure he _won’t_ find out who she really is.

“My name’s…”

She hasn’t thought of a name. Floundering, she turns to Red who says, “Why do you sound so surprised that Anna is my friend?”

Emma breathes. Anna. A perfectly suitable name.

“I don’t know,” Henry says, looking down at his feet.

“Do you think that I don’t have friends?”

“ _Well_ ,”

“I can’t wait to tell Emmet this.”

Red huffs, a look on her face likely to have the house bowing out of her way before she has to resort to blowing it down.

“Where is Emmet anyway? He wasn’t in his room when I dropped off his bag."

Which Red had then retrieved to Emma's chagrin.

She'd stopped her before she could read up to the Little Mermaid, but it was only through wearing her down with her pleas that Emma had managed to rid herself of the 'Mulan' moniker.

Red had been the one to add to the "Things You Can Only Learn through Suffering" list: nicknames aren't always appreciated.

(Upon discovering the gold horse and cart in her bag, Emma had made her own mental addition: you're not too old to cry over a toy.)

“He’s probably walking off all that drink he had. That coffee hits him worse than beer for any normal sailor. Makes him irritable. He thinks he’s right about everything," Red says.

“Are you and Emmet fighting?” Henry asks.

Emma smiles at him. “They could be. If she wants.”

“Emmet wouldn’t stand a chance against me."

“Emmet has a few tricks up his sleeves that you wouldn’t expect. I’m sure of it.”

“I like you,” Henry says in an almost perfect imitation of the way she said it to him, only moments after actually talking to him.

“Same to you.”

She drops the 'kid' from her vernacular for the moment.

"What did you want the Captain for again? Red never said."

"She didn't?"

Red spins away with a laugh, leaving Emma to make up a reason.

(Good thing she's _so_ capable under pressure.)

"She told me that your Captain doesn't allow females on his ship. I thought perhaps I can argue her case and convince him to change his mind."

"Change my mind, lass?"

Emma arcs around.

"You can certainly try."

His voice teeters off as he gets a look at her until it's nothing more than a whisper. She nervously reaches up to tug at her growing hair, pulling the longest strands over her shoulders. While his eyes move over her, Emma stays rooted to the spot. The look isn't lusty, but it's like the way he looked at her after their kiss, seeing her for the first time.

(Well, of course he is, _Emma_.

Anna.)

But it's really the second part that throws her, the same look as before but now she's more willing to recognize it for what it is: he's looking at her with new eyes, and they like what they see.

"Maybe that's not a good idea," Emma says, stepping back into the seeming safety of Henry's space.

"You're probably right," Henry says at the same time as Killian follows her path forward, stepping in time to her nervous dance, and says, "It's a brilliant idea."

"It is?" she and Henry both ask.

"Henry, shouldn't you be off to bed?"

"I was looking for Emmet."

"As was I," he says softly. He sounds disappointed but only a mite so.

_Like he's found something better_. She isn't certain whether to be offended or thrilled. That's what she gets for trying to play at two very different people.

He looks at Henry. "Well, I'm sure he'll turn up soon enough. Now off to bed."

Henry skitters away sulkily, and Emma nearly calls him back. It's too short of a time. Emma wants, no, needs more time.

"It was nice to meet you, Henry."

He looks back with a bright smile.

"It was nice to meet you, too. Until another time? Or maybe you can convince him to take you, too."

Emma's laugh is too dry. It catches in her throat.

"Maybe," she says.

"Do you think you're persuasive enough? I am not easily swayed," Killian says.

She looks about the crowded bar area. There is no savior to be found here but there _is_ a recently vacated table that Red is already clearing the glasses away from.

Gathering herself, Emma looks at Killian.

"I wouldn't think so," she says.

"I'm Captain Killian Jones," he says. "Pleased to make your acquaintance..."

"Anna," she replies.

"Anna. That's a lovely name."

_Emma_ , she thinks moodily, _is better._

"Would you like a drink, love?"

Love? Well there's a new one. The way it sounds falling off his lips makes her head spin.

So does the way he looks at her now. Different than usual. Just as intense, still a gaze that she feels even when she glances away, but it’s easier to handle (in the way that a sword is easier to fend off than two swords) knowing that he's looking at her as herself.

(Mostly. Princess Emma can stay just Anna for tonight.)

"Sure."

He sits down at Red's cleared table and she takes the seat across from him, her chair scratching across the floor.

As he waves Red back over, Emma stares at him, unabashedly for once. As Anna, she doesn't have to be shy in her looks so she doesn't pretend to be looking at something else when he turns around. At his surprised smile, Emma flutters her lashes.

(It's just one night.)

He swallows, and his smile twists into a smirk.

"Are you enjoying the view?"

"The back of your head? It isn't that interesting, although you do have oddly pointed ears."

"Oddly?"

"Cute," Emma corrects.

"Cute."

He repeats her like he's trying out the word, something new he's never heard before.

His smile dazzles. Emma blinks away the light in her eyes to see Red smiling down at her, too.

"What would you like?" Red asks.

She winks in Killian's direction, but Emma knows it’s for her by the way Red touches her shoulder like a clap on the back.

"Anna?"

Emma shakes her head, smiling at her hands. "I'll take an ale."

"I'll have it in a flash," Red says.

She stalks away, skirts flapping around her ankles, grinning at patrons, Emma's fellow crewmates who try to grab Red’s attention with a bawdy joke or a drunken plea. She throws a look over her shoulder at Emma, another lingering wink.

"Friend of yours?" Killian asks.

"We just met actually but...yeah."

Killian nods. "You seem the type for it, easy friendships."

"I would disagree, though lately it's as if..." She laughs, this time without bitterness when she says, "My luck has changed."

"And has something heralded this change?"

Emma allows herself a second just to hold his gaze before she says, "I met someone."

"Someone?" he prods.

Their first meeting comes back in stark clarity, the sting of her wounded hands, the pain of selling her outfit and her fear from that night before. Her purse jingling in his fist.

She glances at his hand, the P half hidden between his fingers.

Here, like her memory, his smile is a welcome sight. As it was to Emmet, as it is to Anna.

As it is to Emma.

"Would you believe me if I said that someone was myself?" _Emma_ says.

"I would. As someone who knows what it's like to lose himself, I am quite acquainted with finding myself."

Emma giggles. "Finding yourself where?"

"Oh, everywhere imaginable. In a cup of drink, in the claws of a siren, halfway around the world and back.”

The cadence of his voice draws her closer to him with each word. Leaning in she says, “Only halfway?”

"Must I brag about all the places I've been?"

His eyes twinkle with humor, inviting her to move closer. She feels hypnotized for a moment and draws her knees together to keep herself steady in her seat.

"Go on, Captain. I'm all ears."

"Oh, you are much more than that, I'm sure." He says silkily.

If words could caress, his would. Fingers too, probably, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. Remembered touches turning her head. Burning her cheeks.

Red comes back a moment later, dropping their drinks before them. Just as quickly as she came, she goes, and Emma knows something's afoot by her swift departure.

She can't think of that right now. He hasn't stopped looking at her. Lifting his drink to his mouth he asks, “Where should I begin then?”

Emma has to lean back to grab her drink, which is probably for the best.

“Your favorite land?”

He mulls over this question, scratching at his side. Scooting closer to the edge of his seat, he says, "The crew would be right mad if I said this, so keep it between us, will you? I always loved the forests of Amazonia. Now, I did not love the ravenous fish, the man eating vines with moldy green teeth, the giant sized apes and crocodiles, or the people, who, ah, don't much like pirates going after their gold. Although, it doesn't sound like I loved much of it at all, the rich scent of the forest around the rushing river – in my dreams, I can still smell it."

"Like honey on the breeze," Emma says with wonder. It's been awhile since she referenced her book with more than distaste.

He raps his knuckles on the table, rising slightly in his chair. "You've been there, then?"

"Ah no," she says. He folds a bit, disappointed. "I've read about it – and its people. Its women."

Half of her feels embarrassed at her admission. Killian presses forward, one hand on his knee. "Ah, so you know about their bows."

Embarrassment disappears at the drop of his smile. "They draw fire in every arrow. It can burn a man alive,” she says excitedly.

(She sounds as murderous as Cassandra. Must run in the family.)

"A ship as well. My ship would have been destroyed if not for some clever thinking by myself."

“Clever thinking?”

"We came to an agreement. They wouldn't burn my ship and I wouldn't have to turn that burning ship onto their homes."

He has the decency to look ashamed in himself for the threat.

She twists in her seat. With his familiar jacket left with one of the other barmaids at the door, he has nothing to hide the tattoo on his wrist.

The flames burning on the sea.

"After that, of course, I had the ship enchanted against flames. Another feat."

She looks back in his eyes, which is probably (definitely) a mistake.

"It sounds like the trials of Hercules," she says.

Stone faced, she picks up her drink again and doesn't lift her gaze from his as she takes a swig. The alcohol burns going down her throat.

(Or maybe it's the way he bites at his bottom lip, watching her.)

"You are teasing me."

She sets her drink down, already mostly gone. "I am. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," he says.

Following her example, he chugs down his beer.

It's nerves that have her waving the other barmaid over. Her hair is a gold remarkably similar to Emma's own. When she twines her fingers in her hair, Emma reaches up to do the same.

"Two more, please," she requests softly, trying to ignore the way the woman looks at Killian.

Resolutely ignoring the way he's looking at Emma.

"No problem, darling," she says to Killian.

Emma resolves to call Red over next time. At least Red will only attempt to steal _her_ virtue.

She giggles.

"What's so funny, love?" Killian says.

His curiosity recalls her to him. "Sorry, I was just...thinking."

"About what? Not me, I suspect."

His disappointed sigh only makes Emma want to tease him again, this time with a deeply curved smile.

"My friend. Rude of me, I know."

"Highly rude, but I can think of a way for you to make it up to me."

He moves forward, knee knocking against hers. Emma doesn't move, and it would be so easy to excuse it as being frozen in fear, but it's her concerted effort not to move.

Because if she moves, she's going farther into their shared space, not away from it.

Heat runs over skin as he says, "Would you like to hear another tale?"

"What kind of tale?"

"Oh, it's one I'm sure you'll approve of. You like an adventure, don't you?" he asks, but he sounds too certain for it to be a question.

"What would make you think that?"

"You did say you wanted to convince me to take on your friend. We only take on adventurers."

"No more preamble," Emma demands, surprising herself at her sharpness. She takes another sip at her drink, this one much stronger than the last. "Tell me."

"Eager, aren't we? As you wish."

"One of my mates, he believes in the Old Gods. He's of a superstitious breed to be sure, but he is also correct. They do exist."

(Hawke, no doubt.)

"How do you know that?" Emma asks.

He grins from ear to ear. "I once took it upon myself to fight one."

"Now, you're teasing me, but I'll bite."

She hates that phrase. Absolutely hates it because the moment she says it, he looks at her mouth and scratches at his neck and she can't help the thought that floods her mind. Her mouth on his neck.

This drink is pure poison. The corset is cutting off the air to her brain. She left her senses on Red's bedroom floor.

Her whole body starts to burn - and Red's so right, she is modest for a pirate, but hell, she could bite herself at this point if it would get her mind to shut up.

(You left your clothes on her bedroom floor, too.)

"I am not teasing," he says. _Yet_ , his eyes say.

Emma is so grateful when he drops the intensity from his gaze to something manageable for her.

"You've heard of the Black Lands?"

"I have."

"Your knowledge is impressive. Well, I don't have to tell you the difficulties that can bring you there. I had to wrest my ship out of the jaws of a sea snake just to end up on its blackened shores. Its river is even more impressive than that of Amazonia. The soil is so rich that a more enterprising mind could probably grow gold there."

"A _more_ enterprising mind?"

(Who's more enterprising than a pirate willing to dress his crew as royalty for a chance at gold?)

"I'm no farmer, milady."

The phrasing worries her mind for a moment until his fingers find her wrist and she becomes more worried by more pressing matters.

"I need another drink."

He laughs. "You've yet to finish this one."

"A coffee. I need something sweet."

His thumb traces a circle around her knuckle as he murmurs, "Something sweet, eh?"

"Please," she begs. Him. Anyone.

Red hears her plea and shows up in Henry's stead to save her with a smile.

"Did you need something?"

"A coffee for her, if you please, lass, and I shall take another of whatever your fellow barmaid tried to poison us with."

"You want _more_ poison?"

Killian grins. "Not all poison is lethal."

Emma giggles. It's calming, his silliness. She even feels alright to have his hand on hers.

She lifts her fingers beneath his and his knee knocks against hers again.

"I'll be back," Red says. She drops a look at Emma.

Emma turns to Killian instead of watching Red go.

"So, you ended up in the Black Lands. How did you manage to fight an Old God?"

He holds up his hand to halt her. "Slowly, love. You can't rush a great story."

"I don't have all night," she says.

It's _sadder_ than she intends.

His brow furrows. "I suppose you don't. Well, allow me to make this evening worth your time."

"It's already..." She quiets. "Tell me, Killian - the story."

She looks at his tattoo as she says it, unthinkingly.

_...So, I thought it best to tell you mine..._

"So, here I am, me and barely half a crew at the time, trying to trade for the items we needed to repair my ship when I met a young man who...encouraged me to visit the temple of Set. He said I would find all I needed there."

Emma widens her eyes. Killian squeezes her hand. "At the time, I didn't know anything about their Gods, so I had no idea - as you would - what kind of God that he was."

"I suppose you could say that this encounter was rather enlightening because as I entered the temple, no crew to aid me, I knew that I'd stepped into some sort of spell."

Tense now, either from the drink or the darkness of Killian's face as he recounts the memory, Emma asks, "What did he want?"

"What do evil Gods always want? My life, in this life and the next. He thought I'd make for a valuable agent of chaos."

"And you didn't agree?"

Killian lifts his shoulders, canting his head to the side. "Oh, I did, but not in service to him. I was a cheeky kid myself at the time. I didn't want to work for a God disguising himself as one. I had some pride left."

"Some?" Emma says with a lift of her eyebrow.

"Much. So, I told him I would duel him for my chance at freedom. If I lost, he'd get my soul."

"So, you dueled a God and won."

Believable enough. Emma had done...sort of the same.

"Not exactly. I am not the idiot I seemed. I left the temple."

"You left. But -"

"He didn't say that we had to duel at that moment. Our match is still on the horizon."

Emma sputters in amazement. "You're not lying, are you?"

The coffee comes at the necessary time because she was just about to ask him if that was what he meant when he said that, “A pirate’s life is one of always being on the run.”

“Thank you, Red,” she says and Red smiles down at her, even though there is a concerned dip to her brow.

“Red,” Killian says, looking her over in Ruby colored dress. “I would never have suspected such a name.”

Emma swallows fast to keep from choking on her sip of coffee. The concern disappears from Red’s look as if it was never there and she glares at Killian.

“I’ve heard,” she says. Dropping his cup into his hands, she says, “Enjoy your poison.”

When she stalks away, Killian says, “I suppose there’ll be no more drinks for me tonight.”

“Me neither,” Emma says.

“Anna, I noticed that you’ve been looking at my tattoo."

"I've just...wondered.” His eyes flicker across her face and Emma catches herself ( _she_ hasn’t known him long enough to have _wondered_ ) and says, “I mean, I'm wondering what it means?"

"If you wanted to know, all you have to do is ask,” he says, extending his arm.

Emma takes him up on his offer and runs her fingers over the slightly raised skin. The bird is roughened, perhaps tattooed over multiple times. Curiously, she feels along it.

"Why would you tell a stranger?"

He humors her with a smile. "You're not that strange."

"Really?" she says in fake offense.

"A bit ethereal, but not strange."

"Ethereal?"

"You're like a dream,” he says, that silken tone back with a vengeance.

Her own response is huskier than she intends. "One you don't want to wake up from?"

"Aye,” he says seriously.

Emma pulls back from him. "That's ridiculous. It's very kind of you, but still ridiculous."

She traces the wings of the Phoenix again. "So what does it mean?"

“It’s a reminder,” he says.

It’s a far different tone than he’s ever taken with her. Different even than his anger. It scrapes at her like a knife going over the same spot over and over again until a groove is worn in.

(Poetic, he might say of her words, and she doesn’t think either of them would laugh.)

“A reminder of what?”

“Of who I am.”

She’d thought it to be a reminder of past times, but suddenly she isn’t so sure. Not when he’s rubbing at the inside of his wrist like he’s done it so many times before with that very same expression, like the hole has deepened to the point that it’ll never be filled.

Emma shivers.

“Are you cold, Anna?”

His regard for her stops his motion and he draws close enough that their legs practically entwine beneath the table.

Emma is nowhere close to cold except when she looks at that tattoo and imagines what kind of person he must think himself to be.

“Just who are you?” she asks.

He hums, rubbing his palm up her bare arm. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” Emma says softly.

The words are there, spilled out in the air between them and there’s no way to take them back, but she doesn’t _want_ to know. She thought it would be easier to hear this as someone else, but it isn’t. She still isn’t who she wants to be.

“I don’t know if we have that kind of time,” he says.

(We don’t.)

She stands up from her seat and says, “You’re right. It’s late and I have something I need to do this evening.”

“Let me walk you out, then. But I have to get my coat first. Will you wait for me?”

Too fast, she says, “I’ll come with you.”

“Yes, you must need a coat.”

His gaze travels from her neck down to her corset laced breasts. Emma shakes her head, dizzy, and he follows his path back up to her face.

“I don’t,” Emma says as she follows him to the front hall. “It’s too warm for that. How you wore one here, I do not know.”

“I’m accustomed to it.”

“To burning?” she says, watching him.

“Yes,” he replies, but the word is not an answer to her question, at least not in the way she asked it. As he pulls his coat over his shoulders, he stares at her.

Burning. Emma’s used to it as well.

It’s the poison that makes her pull him to her by the lapels of his jacket, close enough that they’re pressed together in an all too familiar embrace.

He leans forward, knowing exactly what she wants.

“Anna,” he breathes out and she pulls her head back, so sudden that she staggers herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

She feels like crying.

“I’ll not take what isn’t offered,” he says and steps away from her.

She catches her breath, or at least she tries. Her hands are still curled around the lining of his jacket. She can feel the wear beneath her fingers. Crumpling the edges in her fingers she tries to find the words to say.

“It isn’t that. I just can’t,” she says.

Emma hears the begging tone in her voice – begging for understanding.

It’s a not a new feeling, wanting what she will never be able to have. Once upon a time, only a month ago, freedom felt that way, a wish never to be granted. But then she found her way onto his ship, with freedom thrust into her hands like the rush of the sea, and now she has this – this new unattainable dream.

“It’s alright, Anna. Truly, it is.”

Killian grins and tentatively moves his hands up to where hers clutch his jacket. She isn’t going to bolt, at least that she is sure of, but he must not feel the same because he’s cautious in his touch, unfolding her fingers from their tight grip and cradling them in his hands.

“I told my crew that we’d be off tomorrow, but…” For a moment, he leaves the request unspoken. Emma should cut him off before he even asks it, _but_ …

“If it isn’t too forward – though I suppose I’ve gone past that point. Well, _to_ the point, I’d like to see you again. I’ll stay in port as long as you would like to see me.”

She should’ve stopped him. _Yes, it’s too forward._ _I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want you to stay. I don’t want to see you at all._ At a loss, not for words but for the strength to end the charade and make it easier, she grazes his palms with her nails. There was a moment, Emma recalls, where the brief touch of his hand had flustered her, but now all she feels is comfort. Safe in a way, with her hands in his. As much as she knows she should tell him to go, all she wants is for him to stay. For _them_ to stay just like this for a moment longer.

Smiling, she says, “I’ll be waiting.”

It’s as close to the truth as she can speak. She’ll be waiting for something that’ll never come. For another moment of shared laughter, another life threatening adventure, another kiss.

Another future that isn’t behind castle walls or hidden within the pages of her book.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you all evening,” he says with short stops in between each word. _Stumbling_ over his goodbye. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow, then, and you can work on convincing me to let Red join my crew.”

Emma laughs, almost. “Yes,” she lies.

“Right.”

His words are only a little teasing when he says, “Now, Anna, I know my presence is greatly desired, but you _did_ say that you had somewhere to be.”

Did Cinderella have this problem when she attempted to run off before the bells rang at midnight? Was she too unable to let go of her prince’s hand?

Emma sure as hell hopes not. This is embarrassing enough without it being a common occurrence.

Still, with embarrassment clawing red marks up her skin, she is slow to release him.

“I do. Thank you for sharing this evening with me, Captain.”

“Killian,” he corrects.

“Anna,” she says, the joke passing her lips all too quickly for her brain to catch it.

Apparently, he doesn’t even notice her mistake because his eyes are back on her lips. “Tomorrow,” he says, but she can tell it isn’t to her.

She is collected enough to prevent the urge to lick her bottom lip like she would normally, _instinctively_ do. Instead she finally lets him go and steps out of their shared space.

“Good night again, Killian.”

“Good night, Anna.”

She's the first to leave, exiting out the front door only to come back in through the back where she grabs Red. Emma's hands shake on her arm.

"The night's almost over and I -" Emma stammers.

"You're leaving."

"I am?"

The poison is in her veins and she can't think at all.

(Luckily?) She has Red to think for her.

"You are. Emma you can't stay."

"I can't but I want to. Oh Gods, I really want to. How do I do this? I can't do this."

Red shakes her. "Snap out of it. You're being ridiculous."

She is.

It takes a few moments to calm herself and then she can't look Red in the eye. She's never broken down in front of someone like that. Never been so emotional.

She's never _felt_ enough to be emotional. She has never wanted anything in her life. Adventure was a dream. There was never a reality that ever felt out of reach, not like this one does. It's like she's never felt anything in her life, which isn't true in the slightest but it feels that way.

Feeling. She needs to stop that.

"He's left, so we can head upstairs," Red says.

"How do you know that?"

"I can smell him, though it's a bit hard to disentangle him from you."

Emma pales. Does her scent cling to him? Does his to hers?

(Burning, she feels _burning_.)

 "What do you mean?"

Red smiles. "It's just you're so close to me right now, that's all."

(Liar, liar, dragon fire.)

The thought makes her laugh and it feels better than that painful ache so she latches onto it and says, "I didn't kiss him, if that's what you're insinuating."

"Oh, I know."

Red is terrible. Emma laughs, but she does not cry, so it's an even trade.

Emma follows Red out into the bar, murmuring, "Don't you have to wait on them? I don't want to keep you."

In a rush, Red says, “We both need to get ready. You can't navigate that forest by yourself. It's dangerous and it's lonely. You need a companion. Don't princesses always have escorts?"

She gives Emma a significant look. "Princesses should _always_ have escorts."

"Red you can't come with me," Emma says with a bemused smile.

She doesn't even think Red's being serious until she says, “I can and I am. It's already been decided."

Seriousness capturing her as well, Emma says, "No, it hasn't."

"Yes, it has been. By me, hours ago, when we talked about your home. For the first time, I really felt like there was some place else I should be. You need me there, Emma. You need a friend, besides your parents and since you are...you must leave them behind, I thought that could be me."

Emma thought she’d been on the verge of tears when she pulled back from Killian’s kiss, but this time her eyes feel wet, brimming with reality.

She _must_ leave them behind.

"I know what it's like to be lonely enough that anywhere looks better than where you are, so...I'm with you whether you'll have me or not."

That's a voice that broaches no argument. Emma can learn from her.

“Are you sure you want to come with me? What about Granny?”

“She won’t mind,” Red says, but her bright smile wavers for a moment. “Truthfully, I think I’m more scared to go than she is to let me go.”

“So, you don’t have to,” Emma says.

“I know, but I want to and I can’t keep sitting around just _wanting_. I have to do something.”

Emma thinks of Killian heading back to the ship and says, “So do I.”

-

In less than an hour, she steps back onto the ship with her satchel on her arm, feeling unsteadied by the sight of him leaning over the railing.

“Emmet,” he says, looking brighter-eyed than she left him in the bar. “You’ve come back.”

She closes her eyes long enough to quell her sadness and says, “I wasn’t gone.”

“Well, I know that, but you missed out on a wonderful evening.”

She walks closer, close enough to see the dimples in his smile.

“Did I?”

“I met someone," he says, lilting the words. He isn't slurring yet, but he takes another swig from the flask in his hand before returning it to his jacket.

“Oh?” Emma says.

“Her name is Anna, and she wanted to convince me to let your friend, Red join my crew.”

“Did she?”

“But you know what - I’d let them both join if they wished. Anna would make a hell of a pirate.”

"Oh, I'm sure,” Emma says.

(Joke’s on her, she supposes. She could’ve been herself all along.)

"How can you be? You've never met her. You should meet her Emmet."

"Maybe in another life, Captain. Come on, you should head to bed. Don't you have a ship to sail tomorrow?"

Unhearing, he goes on speaking. "She had eyes like gemstones. Eyes that you'd want to steal."

It's silly enough that Emma laughs when she moves ever closer to him. She can almost touch him now.

"That's creepy."

Killian glares. "It's romantic. You don't know romance, Emmet."

She supposes if she did, it’d be Emmet he’d want to woo and not Anna. Bitterness flares up again, tasting of the salt of tears.

Killian falters and his gaze softens to something uncertain as he looks at Emma through half-closed eyes.

"That's still creepy," Emma says, and he laughs instead, reaching to stroke a finger along the bridge of her nose.

"Well, perhaps you should teach me how I should go about winning the heart of this lovely lass?"

Emma swallows tightly, feeling choked by the bracelet on her wrist.

"Don't tell her you want to steal her eyes. Start there, and we can work towards...romance."

"So, you'll be teaching me as you taught Henry then. As I thought to teach you."

She doesn't want to do this. Mnemosyne can keep her gifts to herself. A swim through Lethe seems better than recalling any of this - all the things that make her want to stay.

"I remember. Dancing," she says with her eyes closed.

She opens them, knowing he's too drunk to notice her own reddened eyes.

"I nicked you," he says and this time he looks at her for permission before he slides his thumb across her throat.

"Hmm," he starts, but doesn't say any more before he pulls back and allows her breathing room.

“Is there a scar?” she asks.

“Not a scratch remains. Nor a necklace. Did you lose your swan, Swan?”

“Swan, swan - you’re hilarious when inebriated, Captain,” Emma says. She pushes him back a bit more, a little roughly.

“My humor has improved. Perhaps it is time to lie down, while my mood is as high as it is. I hope you find your necklace, Emmet.”

“And I hope you’re able to find your bed. Goodnight, Captain.”

“Killian.”

She closes her mouth and lets him disappear down the stairs without another word. Her swan is still in the pocket of the dress she’s folded into the purse Ursula gifted her with. The thought of carrying that weight on her neck feels strange now that she’s leaving that identity behind. Strange and wrong. If she’s to step off this ship as Emma of Misthaven, she can’t have Emmet Swan lingering, tugging at her heart, pulling at her neck - begging her to return here.

It won’t do her any good.

Digging in the purse at her waist, she pulls out the Swan necklace and stares at the slightly tarnished silver. All the sea water and dirt and grime haven’t dulled its shine, but given it a significance it never held before.

It was a gift from her father, but she can’t keep it now. It belongs to Emmet and she’s no longer him. His life was only ever a temporary means to an end, though this is not the end she would ever have thought could happen.

The steps creak as she heads down to the bunks. There are fewer snoring men than she expected, but Henry’s snores still outshine them all. She tiptoes to his side and watches him as he turns in his sleep.

Carefully, she pulls her book out of its satchel and lays it down beside him where he won’t kick it or toss it off the bed in his sleep. Where he’ll find it tomorrow when she is nowhere to be found.

She can’t voice any apologies or goodbyes, but she doesn’t think she was ever meant to anyway. This story, this strange, misguided and maddening fairytale began with words on a page. It should end the same way it began.

"I'm sorry. It was a painful choice, but it was mine to make. I hope this book serves you well. Put more adventures in it for me, will you?"

The words wobble at the end but that can’t be helped when she’s struggling not to cry, scream, and run all at the same time.

This letter, she slips under his pillow. Brushing hair from his forehead, she kisses her palm and lays it there, feeling his warmth beneath her.

“Be good, kid,” she whispers and hurries out the room before he can awake.

As she bypasses Killian’s quarters, she remembers the swan necklace. For a moment, she thinks to knock on his door and tell him she found it. “Nothing to worry about! It’s here. ”

( _I’m here_.)

Instead she drapes the necklace over the handle to his doorway, the last piece of Emmet left behind with him.

On the upper deck, she takes a second to run her fingers over the finished wood of the railing. She’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to take a piece with her, something to remember _them_ by, Mnemosyne calling her name. With difficulty, she tamps down on it and calms the panic that she’ll forget, that she’ll get home in her own bed and forget the way the Jolly would rock her to sleep. She’ll lay down to sleep and forget them all as if they were merely a dream.

It’s an unnecessary worry. She won’t forget this even if she tries, and she knows she will. She knows there’ll be nights where she wakes up in the middle of the night and stares out into her empty bedroom and see ghostly shapes moving about until she blinks the vision away.

She taps the railing again and as she disembarks, Smee passes her on his way back to the ship.

“Where are you headed to?” Smee asks curiously.

Emma swallows and then says, “I’m going to say goodbye to my friend.” Pointing at her satchel, she says, “I didn’t want to leave my things behind. Safety measures, you know.”

“Your distrust is well placed.”

“Be back before noon or we’ll ship out without you.”

“Will do.” She pauses. “Thank you, Smee.”

“For what?”

“For that tour.”

"The tour?" Smee visibly looks back into his memory and when he finds it, he smiles. "Oh, you're welcome, Emmet. Can't wait to have you back as my assistant. It's been awhile since my duties have been so eased."

Emma nods. The tune Smee hums follows her for a bit until the silence comes, warping everything it touches into sad mimics of what they were before. Even the street lamps look dimmed by the quiet around her.

It stays with her when she meets Red at the edge of the forest, sweeping over her as well so that their greeting is silent. Even their bought horses sense it and their whinnies are low enough to be unnoticeable.

Emma doesn't notice them, but the way the air mourns to the same tune as her heart.

In the morning the Enchanted Forest will be alive with noise, but for now, she clutches at her bag, readies her horse and soaks in the quiet of the night.


	11. operation phoenix 1; you're my one last hope, and kid it's up to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins part 2 of MAMOOH, titled "Operation Phoenix." Sorry for the long wait, I hope this chapter is a satisfactory apology. And thank you to everyone who has commented and kudosed, it really keeps me going :D  
> And here's a [helpful visual](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b4/88/50/b488508959970aaee2c0af892c0ac250.jpg) for the chapter.

He wakes up with his face buried in his pillow, breathing in the worn cotton covering. Killian has a slight headache, but that is to be expected when you've imbibed as much as he had last night.

That damned poison. That beautiful smile.

Anna. That was her name. He'd wondered if he would ever find that out.

He'd wondered so many things since the beginning when Emmet's voice had cracked and he heard the undercurrent of a person far different than who they presented themselves as. Killian suspected something amiss, in Emmet’s clever words and polite manner - in the very name: _Emmet Swan_ , so obviously thought up on the spot. In the hair, recently shorn off with a difficulty that had left his knuckles cut. Soft hands. Too soft for a street urchin.

He'd wondered so much about this younger man with the smile that was too gentle - and then he'd wondered even more when that smile hardened, the muscles wider in a span of a few days.

Killian had wondered whether he was going crazy.

Well, he was going crazy, but in the steady way one does when a person like Emmet falls into their lives and sweeps them off their feet in the most literal of manners.

He'd done more than wonder. He'd sought answers, watched him like a hawk. Had _Hawke_ watch him, although the man had volunteered for the duty unbidden - "You may trust Emmet after him knocking you out cold, but there's something off and I'm going to find out what." Although a real hawk would've been far more suitable, with Emmet’s ability to converse with them, some kind of magic he would love to finally get a truthful answer to.

Perhaps after Emmet and Anna become one and the same. As patient as he is and has been, it is difficult not to wish for that moment to come swiftly.

He'll just have to work a little harder at wooing her, listen to those tips she'd offered to give him last night. He laughs to himself, finally lifting his head from his pillow and stretching out his alcohol and sleep numbed limbs.

Killian still considers the line romantic and despite her protests, he'd seen the flush in her cheeks. She'd appreciated the compliment, perhaps. It could have just been the poison she also swallowed down. Or a coffee blush was not unheard of.

He will give credit where credit is due, consider all the possibilities, but shaking the thought that he was the cause is hard when he recalls every other flush of her freckled skin as the boyishly cute Emmet and as the woman he'd suspected her to be so long ago - when she'd demanded to join his crew with such a confidence as to make her fear mostly unnoticeable - who reappeared in Emmet's place when their lips broke apart.

Killian himself reddens at the memory, among other things that even wide awake now as he is, he doesn't quite have the energy to deal with.

He makes a futile effort to get dressed while the remembered feel of her heats his blood, his recent encounter with her womanly features - the freckles that went farther down than he would've guessed even in his wildest dreams, which he has yet to have. Last night he'd been blessed with the blissful dreamless sleep that alcohol always brings. Tonight will be a different story entirely - or maybe not so different. Perhaps, this time, she won't be so scared to kiss him.

Wishful, frustrating thinking.

He's fully dressed when he gets a frantic knocking on his door. Henry with breakfast - the boy has enough energy to power the whole ship. He and Emmet, or Anna as only he gets to refer to her (he was the only one she'd kissed...well, not counting that barmaid but that had been fleeting. Still, he wishes it had been his lips alone. What can he say? He's a selfish man. A stupid one too, goading her into it as if she wouldn't just to spite him.)

The knocking is louder, harder.

Killian discards his thoughts, crosses the room and throws open the door.

"What is it, Henry?" he asks sharply, stepping out onto the deck to look about for any of Midas' guards. Had they been under attack, there would've been shouted warnings, but scouts were another worry.

He sees no scouts milling about on the docks or racing off in the distance, only Henry - and Victor, strangely enough.

"Emmet's gone,” Henry says.

Oh. Killian looks him over, noting the paleness of his face and the book, Anna’s book that he’s clutching so tightly to his chest that it’ll leave an imprint.

A cool breeze flutters his hair, slapping loose strands across his forehead.

Rubbing his hands together he says, "I imagine he's just at the tavern with his new friend, Red,” and tries not to sound jealous as he does so.

She’d come to him, after all.

"No, he isn't. I checked,” Henry stresses. His voice breaks; manhood isn’t easy on anyone, but Killian can’t deny that it’s a more fraught sound than the usual.

“Come now, where else would he go?”

Knowing Anna, it could be anywhere. He looks to Victor, but for once, can’t seem to read anything on the Doctor’s face.

His expression is sober.

"I don't know," Henry says. "He's just...gone."

Before Killian can even begin a protest, call for a search party or do _anything_ , Henry thrusts her book in his hands. Bewildered, he opens it to the torn sheet of parchment peeking out from the pages, reading quickly over the neatly written…

The loopy letters of her normally neat handwriting speak of an obvious strain while writing it, yet, Killian cannot bring himself to care much about her struggle. Not when he reads her words over again: _it was a painful choice, but it was mine to make_.

A decision that didn't include any of them.

Had she felt they would have swayed her, or did she simply not care?

He admits that, for a second, all he thinks about is her promise to wait for him, the promise that she would be here when he awoke with a smile perhaps, a secret look before she brushed her fallen strands of hair underneath her cap and looked out towards the sea. He doesn't imagine a kiss, but just the touch of her hand, his name on her lips.

She'd said it with such ease yesterday, joking with him as she always did.

Had she been planning to leave even as she let loose her hair?

Or had it been far longer thought? When they were making their way from Midas' Castle? When she kissed him and broke whatever spell had held the truth at bay for so long? When she told Henry that he could be her brother? Or perhaps even further back, when she stared at his hand, so obviously not at all what he - she - seemed and asked Killian whether he was a pirate.

"Killian," Victor says quietly.

Killian hears the warning in his tone, warning him away from himself. He glances back to the boy. Henry's raw emotions, the pain, the fear, they all play out across his face. Still Killian can't open his fist around the paper or unclench his jaw.

"Come on, Henry,” Victor says, prying the book out of Killian’s hands. Victor takes Henry's hand to lead him away, which is a bright move, all things considered. Killian simmers just beneath the surface and it would do no good for him to explode in front of the boy.

He still has a bit of sense about him, but it’s hard, especially when Henry pulls away from Victor, and chin tilted high like Emmet - _Anna_ \- taught him and says, “We’re going after him right?”

The words come without thought. “And why would we?”

They surprise Henry as much as they do Killian. The boy’s brows dip so low in confusion as to fall off his face completely. Killian swallows a tasteless laugh.

“Why wouldn’t we? Emmet’s gone, we _have_ to go after him. It doesn’t matter what that stupid letter said - something’s wrong. He wouldn’t have packed up and left in the middle of the night. That isn’t like him. He keeps his promises.”

“He didn’t promise not to leave, Henry,” Killian says, trying not to say anything more, not to think of her smile and her words - _I’ll be waiting_ \- or anything about the way her smaller hands felt in his, like he could hold them forever if she let him. As romantic as any novel. As pathetic as any man in love, without even feeling that way himself.

(That is the truth no matter what his heart says to the contrary.)

“Captain,” Henry says and Killian bites back a curse. The boy’s on the verge of tears. Killian cannot handle tears right now. “Please. I know we’re supposed to sail today but we can’t go. We can’t.”

Killian draws his eyes closed.

If he pushes his feelings aside, he knows he can move on. _Feeling aside_ \- he remembers too well the feeling of Anna’s lips and he wants to go after her, should go after her if only to know for certain that he hadn’t branded her the way she had him.

He just wants to know, but he dashes the thought. If she wanted him to know, she would’ve stayed. If she felt the same -

_I’ll be waiting._

If Anna felt as he feels, she would have waited. With her gone, he has no reason to remain.

“Henry,” Killian starts. Pauses to clear away the nonsense emotion clogging up his voice. “I need you to get back to work. We’ll be off shortly.”

He half expects the boy to storm from the ship, ready to run after Emmet, but he just looks as defeated as Killian feels, which is worse. If the boy had run, Killian would’ve had an excuse to give chase. It was his last hope, he realizes and Henry’s hung head chases away the last vestiges of it.

With a turn of his heel, Henry says, “I’ll go get your breakfast then.”

Victor reaches out a hand to stop Henry but the boy is faster than him, gone in a split second, so Victor turns his gaze on Killian instead.

“Doctor,” Killian says, the formal title all the warning he should need to give.

Victor throws his head back. “Are we really leaving?”

“We are.”

“I suppose I should go and tell the crew. I’m sure they’ll want to know of our lessened size. It’ll mean more duties for the rest of them, of course. Emmet could get more done than most of them combined.”

“Right,” Killian says. If Victor’s searching for some hesitation in his stance, he won’t find it.

Casual as can be, Victor adds, “And I suppose I should give you this as well. It was left on your door.” Killian opens his hand as Victor takes something from his pocket. Dropping it in Killian’s hand, he says, “I didn’t want Henry to see. He is upset enough as it is.”

Killian nods and doesn’t look at the doctor, instead staring at the necklace held in his open palm. So, Anna hadn’t lost it after all - not that he thought she had. He’d thought that she’d taken it off for him, so he wouldn’t find her out. It was too late for that.

Too late for many things.

“No, it would have done no good for Henry to see this, given the circumstances. Thank you for your quick thinking, Doctor. It’s much appreciated.”

“I bet,” Victor says, still too casual, too sober to be the joke it would usually have sounded coming from his mouth.

Killian looks up at him. The man hasn’t had a drink since their adventure at Midas, fending off the rest of the crew’s attempts to catch him in their drunken revelry as easily as he had previously allowed them to. Killian had noticed it with only minor surprise.

Anna had a way of changing people. He’d known that the moment he let _Emmet_ onto the ship. Killian hadn’t brought on anyone new in years, not since Victor, and that he’d done out of a sense of pity, not out of the instant...connection he’d felt with Emmet. There’d been a change in the wind when Emmet stumbled into his life, and now it feels like that wind has gone and he’s been left as he was before.

“You know, I had the thought that Emmet’s been troubled since we left Midas’ castle. I wonder if it was something that happened while we were there that made him decide to go. ”

Killian sets his jaw. “Let’s leave the wondering for stargazers and fools,” he says. “They have more use for it than us.” After a breath, he adds, “I hope you have everything you need for the journey, Doctor.”

He glares at Victor but that must seem an invitation to the man because he says, “Killian, I know that you’ve already made your decision, but…” Victor falters as Killian stares him down. “Well, I suppose there are no buts. I’ll go let the crew know, as I said.”

When Victor follows in Henry’s speedy footsteps, Killian finally lets himself consider Victor's words.

Wouldn't that be the bitterest of ironies that in his desire to have her stay, he'd been the one to chase her off? That the kiss that had hooked him, caught him in her spell, had broken whatever had been building between them?

He looks down at the swan necklace in his hand, remembering the line across Anna's neck where her tan had not reached. Had she meant to be so obvious? Had she meant any of it at all?

If they were to leave the wondering to the stargazers and fools then it was good it should be left to him to stand here and wonder. After all, he'd touched the constellation of freckles on her skin, foolishly believing that those stars were meant to guide him somewhere else.

Somewhere better.

-

He pulls his first mate aside while keeping an eye on the men milling about. Several of them keep an eye on him as well. They try to be surreptitious about it but most of them are used to brash acts of villainy, not subterfuge. They’ve heard about Emmet and they want to see his reaction.

Killian smiles.

“Smee, is everyone accounted for?” Killian asks.

“Everyone except, well, you know.”

Killian turns his head away from the men who’ve given up pretending not to watch him and looks at Smee. “So, we’re ready to ship off?”

Smee frowns deeply. Tilting his head in question, he says, “Ready to ship off? Without Emmet?”

“Emmet left, and we don’t search for those who willingly abandon their own crew, do we?”

That they’ve never had an abandonment like Emmet’s doesn’t pass Smee by. It contorts Smee’s expression, has him opening his mouth wide to voice the words.

“Is this a new rule? And Emmet - he’s - are we really going to leave him behind?”

“He left us behind, Mr. Smee,” Killian says.

The anger chokes at him for a moment. She’d left them behind. Gone off so suddenly that it’s left everyone reeling out to sea.

It’s time to pull them back in.

“It’s not a new rule,” Killian announces loudly. “You abandon the crew and we’ll give you the same. So if anyone wants to share in Emmet’s departure, the floor is yours.”

He waves his hand dramatically, claps Smee on the back when he starts to sputter another protest. Smee coughs on his words.

Ward doesn’t.

Leaning over the railing, he spits loudly into the water below and says, “Knew Emmet wasn’t cut out for this.” He smiles, more bite in his next words than in his missing teeth. “Weak, he was. Fancy words and sword skills won’t change that.”

Weak. Killian doesn’t agree, but a ruthless, angry part of him remembers her words and thinks himself weak instead. Weak to even believe that something good would stay.

He wishes it hadn’t even entered his life at all, but can’t seem to wish she hadn’t. Not yet, at least.

(Not ever, he knows.)

“Emmet wasn’t weak, but not all strong men are pirates.” Killian smirks. “Some of them are farmers, I’m sure.”

Where his words would’ve drawn echoing laughter a month ago, instead he gets light chuckles and wary gazes instead. It doesn’t hurt any worse to see his discontent with Emmet’s abandonment reflected in most of his crew’s eyes, but it does tease the hurt back out to the surface.

He curses loud enough that Smee straightens quickly.

“Back to work!” Smee calls. “We’re headed for brighter horizons.”

Killian scoffs. He’s being obvious. Too obvious, so he tugs at his shirt opening, stalks across the deck with the purpose of heading to the stern. His purpose is turned away in a heartbeat by a sharp whistling that cuts through the bustle of his crew.

He knows that whistle.

"Aiden, what's wrong?" Killian asks, turning towards the sound because the half-man's appearance - on a stolen royal horse that he half trots up the gangplank - can only mean one thing.

Something is dreadfully wrong, besides the obvious.

"Milah?"

Aiden sets his yellowed gaze on Killian. "She needs you."

"Where?"

Aiden’s voice is as flat as always when he says, "In Hades' domain."

Killian curses - is cursed, his whole life just a string of them all bringing him down, but never as far down as that. As far down as Milah has gone.

"Will you travel with us?" Killian asks.

The half-man nods, his eyes blinking sideways. Once, Killian would’ve found this creepy. Once, Killian was just a boy, plowing his way through ship after ship with no end in sight.

"How long?" he asks, forcing memories aside.

"Only a day's travel."

Killian nods and turns back around. Smee’s already waiting behind him, looking unnerved as he stares anywhere but at the green tint of Aiden’s face. "Smee, take Aiden and have him set you a course."

His eyes flit across Killian’s face, his own red with worry. "For the Underworld?"

Smee knows better than to question him when it comes to Milah, but there is consternation in the look he sets on him. Not fear but -

Killian expects it when Smee scurries closer and quietly says, "Captain, are you certain of leaving Emmet behind? Perhaps something bad took him away."

"I doubt it was something bad, Mr. Smee. If he was looking for bad, he would've stayed at our side. No, he left for something better."

Killian feels this with the same certainty he felt when he touched Anna's hand. Something better, that's what she was, and she took that something with her when she left.

Wherever she brings it, he hopes it's somewhere more deserving than his ship. To someone more deserving than him.

(He hopes that something better never finds a home at all.)

-

Looking at his tattoo in the dim light, Killian ignores the ink and paper at its side. He’d started to pen a letter to his contact in Arendelle, but it’s hard to focus when the darkness falls around him, pressing on him with the very same reminder he always finds when he’s alone with nothing but his thoughts and the itch of the oft inked skin.  Memories always attack him at night, but they feel heavier this evening.

He shouldn’t have spoken of the Black Lands last night. He’d been foolish to bring up his encounter there, foolish to share that part of his history knowing what just speaking of a god can bring - but he couldn’t very well tell Anna what he wanted to when her eyes kept flickering to his tattoo with that openly curious gleam in her eyes.

History is doomed to repeat itself. Even with all that he shared with her, Killian couldn’t very well bring that history down upon her - but his unfulfilled bargain with the Old God had been easy to detail with the drink in his belly.

Poison.

Perhaps that poison had a source more sinister than Red’s cellars.

It’s a chilling thought but no more chilling than the memory of her fingers tracing his tattoo, searching the lines that housed the recesses of his soul. Her fingers had been warm, warmer than his own touch could ever be when he knows what those black feathers mean and what fire burns on that sea.

Maybe he should’ve told her. Maybe if he had her departure would hurt less because she’d know who he truly was and know exactly who she was leaving behind.

Or maybe if he’d told her, she would’ve changed her mind. Perhaps, she'd have seen beyond that as he'd seen beyond Emmet.

If she'd changed her mind, maybe he could've changed his too because a reminder is what she was. Anna brought forth memories he thought had burned in that sea. Good memories, happier times.

The wings burn tonight, like the green fire that had encircled him within that temple. Hot and oppressive. He scratches at it, even though it'll just end as it always does, his skin clawed open, blood blooming amongst the black.

After all, history is doomed to repeat itself and Anna is as lost to him as the happiness of his past. All he has left is what he had left before: his tattoo and his ship and the memories that tear at him the dark.

-

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Killian rolls his eyes. Unwise in the face of a god but Hermes can do no worse than the god already at his back except lead Killian into Set’s grasp, and Hermes can’t do that with his wand held in Aiden’s grasp.

“Did you tell Captain Milah that as well when she stole your wand?”

Hermes lifts his hat to look at Killian and then darts his gaze to Aiden as he waves the wand before the rock wall.

“Careful with that,” Hermes says in Aiden’s direction. “They bite.”

Contrary to his words, the snakes on the wand slither up Aiden’s arms, winding around him and hissing. Aiden merely coos at them, an action Killian’s seen many times with him and snakes of various sizes and bites.

“I doubt it,” Aiden says drily.

Water splashes at Killian’s feet, icy cold. He steps a little more towards Aiden but he can do naught more to avoid the cold waves when the island is so small as to be nothing more than a rock in the sea, shrouded by an eternal dusk, the darkened sky still painted with bands of orange, red, and gold.

Killian looks back at his anchored ship and then to Milah’s anchored beside it. They both look out of place in this painting, too human, too real. Killian feels less than human in this almost night, which he supposes is how he should feel when entering the land of the dead.

Some spell keeps Milah's ship from rocking back and forth in the dark and crushing waves, probably the same that keeps his tethered. Or perhaps some gift of Poseidon’s. He always liked Milah better and with good reason.

“Betraying me for your family?” Hermes says, reverting Killian's attention back to him. Killian tilts his head in confusion until the snakes hiss in Hermes direction and he adds, “I know how that goes.”

This look he directs at Aiden.

“I’m sure Milah will return your wand as soon as she is done with it," Killian assures him.

Milah would surely have no use for it after this.

“Are you?” Hermes says. “You seem unsure of a lot things at the moment.”

Killian stiffens and glares at the god, an even more unwise move but one he can’t help when Hermes peers at him from under his hat with a look too knowledgeable.

Anna's run-in with Hermes' twin siblings springs to mind, a trap waiting to drag him into whatever game Hermes is playing. Toying with him with the same tenacity as the fear that tore at him when he'd awoken in the midst of that night to find Emmet's bed abandoned.

“Do you gods have nothing better to do than to bother my crew with your meddling?” he asks softly. He saves his anger for his memory of yelling at Emmet, angry at him - her - for every thought of his - her - body laid out in pieces by wolves or any manner of creatures that lurked in the dark forest.

“You’re not the only ones we bother, but you are the most fun,” Hermes says. He flickers for a moment, proving his point when three people appear behind him, each of different ages and skin tones, in different poses, speaking in different languages - and yet all wearing the same wide-brimmed hat.

As Hermes melds back into one being, Killian says, “I suppose that is meant to be a compliment.”

“A warning,” Hermes corrects. “Not every god walks with as light a step as I.”

Killian easily riddles out the meaning in his words and again he thinks of the god at his back, of Poseidon’s waves splashing over his feet, and of the gods waiting down below.

“Thank you,” Killian says insincerely.

Hermes mouth quirks up at the corners, not quite a smile. The look fades so quickly that it might have been a trick of the light - or just a trick of a light footed god.

A rumbling of the earth makes Killian plant his feet firmly on the ground, holding his hands out to keep himself steady as the rock wall throws itself open. He expects darkness to greet them, but instead what he can see of the passage is smoothed red rock, well-lit by a source that he cannot see.

It isn’t particularly foreboding but it is the Underworld, so he places his hand on his sword, readying it for easy access. There are many dead down there that wish the same upon him, and those that would no doubt stoop to any level to succeed.

Anna was right to leave when she had.

Stepping forward, he stops abruptly when Hermes throws a hand up before him.

"I could make a proper guide if you would allow me back my wand," Hermes says, flapping into Killian's view on his winged shoes.

"You could or you could leave us behind in those dark depths to become permanent residents of the Underworld. Trickster god that you are, it would do no good for me to put my faith in you. After all, my family is on the line," Killian says.

Family. He glances back at his anchored ship with Henry Swan pressing on his mind and Anna's necklace burning a hole in his breast pocket.

"Your uncertainty of your path will not help you once you pass the gates. Tread carefully," Hermes says. Killian frowns at the god. This time when he smiles, it’s the toothy grin of a child. "And Godspeed to you."

Hermes flickers out of view, leaving a cool gust in his wake. It throws Killian and Aiden forward, into the lightened tunnel and when he catches his balance and whips back around, the wall is sealed behind him.

Killian shrugs. This he'd had no uncertainty about. Once in, there would be no getting out until he found a proper exit. The Gates of Dusk are a good enough entrance to the Underworld, but they never remain open to those wanting to return to the world of the living. As close to Kokytos as they are, it would prove too dangerous. Grief is a heavy burden and many would crack under its weight if given the chance.

Already, Killian feels it pressing on him, but he's used to its weight.

He glances at Aiden. He looks unaffected but there's no way to be sure. Killian has heard stories of those so overcome with grief that they'd cast themselves down in the river or laid down to cry themselves to death at its banks. But then again, these are mere stories and while he is wary, they do beg the question of who is doing the telling if everyone who's met Kokytos has perished with their grief.

Killian is sure there are those like him, survivors who would take their grief to the grave - the grave of others and not their own.

"Shall we move? The snakes tell me that it is a long walk and that we dare not tarry. It would do no good to begin to thirst for the waters or the Queen's fruit."

He says the last part deferentially and Killian jumps back when vines begin to sprout from the walls, flowering with purple fruits that beg him to taste their sweet juices.

They smell like Anna.

"Captain Jones!"

Killian tears his eyes from the walls and at once the vines drop their fruit in loud clumps. They roll against his feet, each one withering before his eyes. The scent is no longer the clean lemon scent of tavern soaps but sickly sweet, enough to make his stomach churn.

Blinking, he meets the light of the wand and lets the snakes' hissing bring his scattered mind back together.

"Be wary," Aiden repeats. "Step with careful feet."

He almost sounds like Hermes. It would be no surprise if he were a descendant of the god himself. His guidance and his trickery had gotten Killian and Milah out of many a situation when Killian still traveled with Milah's crew, before the black phoenix took flight and burned a path across Killian's soul.

Killian grunts his acknowledgement. Watching carefully and keeping a careful watch over his mind, he steps down the passage, following Aiden's slow descent. The air becomes oppressive long before they reach the bottom. It makes Killian and Aiden both step faster, apparently with the same thought in mind.

Milah. She's been down here for hours, having opened the passage before Killian and Aiden arrived. She'd left the wand behind, but had conjured another guide with it before she went.

Killian can only guess what it has done to her to use the very thing that tore her world apart.

He urges Aiden forward when the passage widens out, but rests his other hand on his sword. No telling what they'll find in the chamber below.

His worry proves right because, she waits in the arched doorway.

It's a striking vision, her hair done up in the braided bun she wore when she'd skin the fish she'd caught earlier in the day, not wanting the scent to cling to her dark locks. She drops her gaze on Killian the same way she did when he was small enough to climb into her arms and tickle a smile into her cheeks with his dirty fingers.

If Killian wasn't so sure of their location, he'd think he was already at the base of the Styx, hatred bubbling in his stomach.

But he always knew grief to have the most bitter of tastes.

"Can we bypass your games or must I pretend to entertain the thought that you are really my mother?”

The creature shrugs with a look that his mother only ever gave to his father when he would come back after days away. "I thought this form would be of comfort. My other is less than desirable to mortal eyes, even those that have seen as much darkness as yours."

Killian places his hand on Aiden's back. "And what shape has it taken for you?" he asks, ignoring the creature's curious gaze. Knowing it isn't really his mother doesn't help him from wishing it to be so.

Grief plays many tricks on the mind.

"My sister," Aiden says, keeping his gaze on the light of the wand. "But we need not slay her." He pauses. His gaze falters only momentarily but it is a moment that says enough: not that they even _could_ slay it. "She is harmless."

Killian looks at his "mother."

"Harmless is not what I would ascribe to her," he bites out.

The creature shrugs. "I am but a doorman to welcome you. Only those who do not wish to remain ever concern themselves with my true form, so I shall not keep you. Your path is long and you should hurry."

Killian lifts an eyebrow. "Why?"

For a moment he is comforted by the creature’s smile, so much like the one he used to crave more than food on cold nights when he had nothing to cradle him but his own arms.

The comfort does not last when the creature speaks.

"My sisters are not as welcoming."

Killian nods and makes to step around the creature into the chamber, but stops, considering. "I should thank you, then," he says.

"Thank me?"

With a smile that he's sure looks a bit like her own, unreachable by the eyes, Killian answers, "For such a kind welcome."

When the creature disappears, the last thing she does is blow him a kiss, with tears in her eyes as large as the ones that fell from his mother's eyes when the life left her eyes.

"Come on,” Aiden says. "Achlys' sadness is not the only grief we must face."

Killian nods and walks past the threshold into the chamber beyond.

If he'd stepped into the room without his hand on Aiden's back he would surely have perished for the light of the tunnel blinks out the moment he touches down on the black soil, the only light that from Hermes' wand. The darkness is more than oppressive now. It is choking.

"I believed Nyx's domain to be farther off," Killian coughs out. His lungs struggle for air. Lifting his hand from his sword, he clutches at his throat.

Aiden sounds much the same when he says, "Maybe she wanted a change of scenery."

The joke lightens the darkness perceptibly and a weight shifts in his chest. Killian keeps his other hand on Aiden, moving it up until he has a grip on the wand as well, but it’s not as necessary anymore.

Curious at the change in the air, Killian says, “And she chose to remain in the Underworld? How bad must her former Halls be that she considers _this_ a change of scenery?”

The darkness shifts even more and Killian draws in an easier breath.

“Grief,” he murmurs. “Bloody grief.”

Aiden twists his head and nods at him. In the dim light, his eyes are the bright yellow of a cat’s. He knows that they could cut through any darkness, but Nyx herself?

He is grateful that it was only grief constricting them and nothing more.

Aiden sighs. “And yet, it would’ve been a bloodless death.”

Killian chuckles, the sound smooth now that he can actually breathe. “Which is no better than a bloody one.”

The wand pulls them forward, urgent, warning. Killian doesn’t take his grip off it. He doesn’t trust the momentary lifting of the veil, nor does he trust his ability to keep up the lighthearted jokes, not with his heart as heavy as it is. Thankfully, it isn’t so much grief as it is a vicious longing for something that he’ll never have. He tries not to think of Anna’s face, tries to focus on his goal, on Milah. Milah needs him, not Anna.

Milah needs him.

(Anna’s face remains.)

They’re dragged forward again, along a path of red soil that cuts through the black. Killian follows that path as far as he can with his eyes and then turns his gaze towards Hell’s Heavens, a darkness that reaches forever upward with no end in sight just as the plain before them stretches outward as far as his eyes can see.

He shivers and looks back at the soil. It slips beneath his feet and he stops Aiden, pulling the wand back. The snakes hiss on Aiden’s arms, looking at Killian with equally yellow eyes.

“Careful. That soil isn’t naturally red,” he says.

He steps down hard and blood squelches beneath his feet. From the deepness of the color, it must be gallons of it, and it could be a trick played on their already weakened minds, but Killian doubts it. Achlys did mention her sisters and Killian brushed up on his knowledge of the Underworld as much as he could before they arrived at the Gates of Dusk. Keres - daughters of Nyx, winged women of "violent death." Killian doesn't want to be caught in their clawed grips, especially when he's not just at Death's door, but inside its hallowed halls.

"I thought so. It smells old, but everything smells like that down here. The dryness of death, beyond rot, down to the brittle bone."

"Such imagery," Killian comments.

Aiden looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "The only way is forward. We must follow the guide."

Killian nods and relinquishes his tight hold on the wand, allowing it to pull him whichever way it leads. He tries to speed up his steps, tries not to let his thoughts wander again. Stick to the path. Stick to the goal.

The blood makes it hard. His feet sink into the soil, his boots covered in dirt that will take more than a scrubbing to come clean. He's not sure how he'll manage to feel clean after this at all. Death clings. It sinks into the skin, beyond blood and marrow, _down to the brittle bone._

He peers around him again, careful to keep watch for anything approaching. It's quiet around them in the lonely flat landscape of blackened earth, but it isn't the silence of a beast waiting in the wings, poised for an attack. It's the quiet that eats away on its own, leaving you to your own thoughts.

 _Stick to the path_.

The words don’t hold the thoughts at bay. Killian tries to speak, to break the silence, but the words die in his throat and instead thoughts bloom. The days he spent in his house before his neighbor came looking, before he was taken from her side and brought to the orphanage. Before that place became too much for him to bear, when he'd rather live on the streets than linger a day longer in that hell of hoping for something more - for his father to come back like he'd promised. For his brother who he could barely remember.

Now, he remembers him far too well. The familiar vision is eager to fill his whole sight, to block out even the path before him. Killian looks to the light of the wand, but even that wanes in the face of his brother's empty gaze.

Killian doesn't find the strength to fight off the vision, but he doesn't have to. He is saved by the flapping of wings and a breath so foul that he can do naught but focus on it, choking for a breath.

"Her sisters," Aiden says, drawing his crossbow from its hook on his side. Specially designed, he only needs one hand to let the arrows fly, but Killian doesn’t know if that will be enough against these...beasts.

Killian wraps his fingers around his blade, waiting for the ugly creature to attack, but instead a creaking laughter escapes the festering lips of the winged harpy.

"Our trail of blood shall guide you on, but to what end? Hers?”

 _Milah_.

There too much blood, too much blood for it to be hers spilled across the dirt, but still the thought grabs hold as it watches him with foamy white eyes, flapping its rotting wings.

"You didn't kill her."

"We had no need. She seeks a greater death," another one says. Killian twists his head to look at it. Where its sister is the pale blue of blood drained bodies, this one is a sickly green. It makes Killian nauseous - a power he is sure it holds dear. He ignores the feeling, choking down the bile and releases his blade.

"Aiden, they're not going to attack. Let’s move on," he says.

He doesn't quite trust his own words, but what would be the use in attacking him when they seem so certain that they do not need to? Violent death - that isn’t in the cards for him.

Or, they see that he is marked already and feel no use in killing him when his day waits on the horizon in a land of soil blacker than that around him, and a river greater than that before him.

The river that had not been before him moments ago.

He looks up, but the Keres are gone. He did not hear their wings take flight, but perhaps they had not been there at all to begin with, another vision sent to scatter the first, to scatter his thoughts even more, and in his confusion, send him hurling into Kokytos unaware. Or perhaps there is no river before him, and that is a trick of his mind.

He drags Aiden forward by the staff of the wand and says, "You see it, too?"

"Yes, and I've seen Milah's been through here."

Killian smiles. At the edge of the river, lying beside the path of blood is Milah's hat, a sign she no doubt left for them to urge them on. "She'll want us to bring it back to her."

Aiden scoffs. "Of course. Milah's style will not be the same without it."

"I'm not sure if you agree with her or whether you're just parroting a line that she's told you too many times," Killian says.

The snakes hiss under their breath, apparently not amused by Killian’s poor attempt at a joke. He doesn’t blame them, but Aiden takes it in stride and says, "It could be both."

"Aye, it could."

They should have kept speaking because as soon as they stop, as soon as Killian reaches down to grab up Milah's hat, the vision washes over him again, this time in colors brighter than he knows it to have been, his memory dramatized on the stage of the river, waters rising up to play out the scene.

He knows how it goes, he doesn’t need to see.

His tattoo burns on his wrist like it never has before. He tears at his wrist but it doesn’t soothe, only makes the burning worse. He scratches and stumbles backwards.

The water embraces him, drags him into the scene. Killian isn’t the boy on the stage and hasn’t been that boy for years, but for a moment he sinks into his role, smiles at his brother like he did before.

Liam smiles back.

The burning begins again and he fights against it, but it’s in his eyes. The salt is in his eyes, forcing unwilling tears. He drowns in it, can no more fight the swell of the water than he can fight the memories.

It plays out like the worst of fairytales. Once there was a Captain and a cabin boy. Once there was a sword and a decision.

A sword and a decision made.

And then nothing but the sword.

Killian picks up the bloody blade, tears in his eyes and knows that if he uses it, it'll end his sorrow far better than his useless attempts at it.

They could reunite. His mother, not merely a form taken by a goddess, his brother's smile real and true.

Anna and -

Killian drops the blade in the water instead reaching for his pocket. His jacket weights him, but if he can just reach it. He can't see through his tears, but he doesn't need to when his fingers grasp the swan in his hand and break the vision before his eyes.

Once there was a Captain and a cabin boy.

And once there was a woman disguising herself as a man.

There is a Captain and a cabin boy and somewhere there is Anna, living, breathing, smiling maybe, even if it isn't for him.

He breaks the surface, gasping for air and fights the current of the river, swimming against it with the swan clutched so tight in his fist as to leave an imprint behind.

At the shore, Aiden waits and when Killian is close enough, he helps drag him from the water onto the land.

"Idiot," Aiden hisses.

Anna would say the same.

Killian laughs and shakes out the cold water in his hair. It'll no doubt dry soon in this hot climate, he's only thankful that it cleaned the blood from his boots and the salt from his eyes.

"You have her hat?" Killian asks.

Aiden grits his teeth. "Your priorities astound me."

Wiping his wet face on the offered handkerchief, he says, "So, you do have her hat. Let's go."

Aiden peers at him, his yellowed eyes blinking rapidly while one hand clutches the deep blue hat, crushing it in his strong grasp.

"Milah would not have perished here. She's stronger than her grief. If I could do it..."

Aiden sighs. "Of course, she could."

Killian still doesn't quite have the energy to take offense at his words, but he does scoff with as much dramatics as his waterlogged lungs allow.

He takes inventory of his belongings - the rum's gone, but his sword still hangs at his side - and goes to place the necklace back in his pocket. He reconsiders, drops the necklace around his own neck. It falls against his skin, the silver colder than the water in its spot above his heart.

Romantic. Anna would approve. Perhaps. He isn't sure.

The only thing he is sure of is that she'd saved him back there and for a moment, it felt like she’d left more than this trinket behind when she abandoned ship.

His bearings gathered, Killian takes ahold of the wand again. He and Aiden let its pull send them into a full on jog down a clearer path, free of bloody earth.

This side of Kokytos has a view of the next river and to the right of the approaching river, across narrower waters, flint grey stairs, and miles of them, lead down into a darkened vale. Smoke rises from the valley, but there aren’t any visible fires, just darkness and a haze that makes his heart sore. Killian shivers just to look at it. The snakes on Aiden's arm shares his mindset, hissing in its direction. Luckily the wand pulls them towards the larger river.

Or unluckily. The closer they get, the more feelings Killian would rather leave buried are dragged to the surface. He realizes he's bleeding only when they're halfway to the black river and his tattoo begins to crawl again.

"Bloody fucking hell," he curses, angry at himself for clawing the damn thing open, angry at the damn thing for existing.

Angry, hateful.

"The Styx is close," Aiden says.

Killian's about to push him away, strangle him for even speaking when Aiden thrusts the wand back into Killian's path. He grabs it merely to keep from tripping over it.

The anger cools immediately.

"Styx, of course," he says. "All that hate in one mighty river."

“Mighty goddess,” Aiden corrects.

Killian follows his eye line and swipes a hand over his eyes. His sense of disbelief drowned in Kokytos, and now all he has is his sense of frustration.

_Not every god walks with as light a step as I._

Killian thought he had riddled out the truth when, of course, there were several in Hermes’ words. The second being that the goddess lying across the river is so large that her shadow could create its own night.

She doesn’t seem to see them, and Killian keeps his hand tight on the wand now. This close to her, he’d probably kill Aiden in a split second’s slip of his grasp. Bleeding arm or not, he’d much rather have his own blood dripping down his fingers than his friend’s.

Sanity, self-preservation, common sense and uncommon sense all would tell him to avoid moving any closer, but he and Aiden keep up their tread towards the River.

Aiden sees the light first, his eyes built more for the dark than Killian's.

"Milah's at the base of the river," Aiden says, which is Killian's cue for them to break into a run. They skid across the black dirt, kicking up dust that turns to smoke in their lungs. Killian struggles to breathe around it - which is an alarmingly common occurrence today - and through the darkness he can see Milah bent by the waters, a blue light casting a glow over her that makes her look almost ghostlike.

Almost - but the ghost beside her does a better job of it, which is good all things considered. He can't do anything to harm her with his incorporeal form, just stand before her and glare.

Killian's never seen the short, crippled man before but instinctively knows that Milah's former husband glowers at her. Killian knew it would be so when Aiden's horse galloped up the gangplank and he revealed Milah's location. As worthless as her husband was, he was her last resort should the worst occur.

Should she not succeed in finding her boy on her own.

Killian should've known what she was up to when she'd leaned into his embrace in Ursula's tavern and rang false laughter in his ears. He should've known when she’d told him “Death would be kinder.” But Killian had been distracted with his own thoughts, too involved in his own dreams to notice her darkened ones. He was so used to seeing her determination that the lack of it had completely passed him by.

Killian's observant, but -

Anna's necklace hangs heavy on his neck.

Milah raises a hand when they're yards away from her and says, "Stop. I need to speak with him alone."

“I wouldn’t want to get between such a happy reunion…” He trails off, the sarcasm hard to keep going when he’s close enough to her now to see that the ghostly glow isn’t just the fairy light in her hand. The color is draining from her skin. “I came here to make sure you don't do anything stupid and I can't do that with you so far away, Milah.”

Milah snaps her head to the side and fixes him with a gaze so cold that Killian has to move closer, pulling Aiden with him. Her eyes look milky, the blue duller. "The wand, Milah. Placing a hand on it should help with whatever you're feeling."

"If Hermes' wand could help, I would've used it to send me to wherever Bae is,” Milah says. Her words burn, steam rising on the river and sweating Killian’s skin.

Killian didn’t forget her husband, but his voice still draws a surprised shift of his head. "You've yet to find my boy - of course, that's why you came, right? To make sure he hasn't been spending the last few years keeping his father company."

Milah shifts her gaze back to Rumplestiltskin. Despite Killian’s words, she doesn’t grab the wand and even with it in his own hand, Killian feels a stirring. The river seems to rise a fraction, like an awakening, the sleeping goddess' eyes opening to press her hateful gaze upon them.

"I need to know, Rumplestiltskin. You owe me that.”

She raises her cupped hands as she says it, lifting the fairy light towards Rumplestiltskin. He steps closer, eyes so focused on the light for a moment, entranced by it.

Snapping his gaze away, he cackles. "I owe you, Milah?” His voice rises, and the river slaps higher on the bank. “You're the one that left us! You're the one that ran away!"

Milah’s anger rises to meet his own. “I couldn't stay. Not like that, not in a village where I couldn’t walk to the market without the stares, the whispers, the spitting at my feet - I couldn’t stay and you know it. I didn’t want my anger to turn to him. You could live like that, but cowardice rests easy with you. It ate away at me and I would not let it eat away at him, too.”

Taking a breath, the river slides back down as she says, “Baelfire was better off without me.”

Silence follows. Rumplestiltskin starts to move towards the light, standing a little taller. He starts quietly, quiet enough that Killian doesn’t hear his first words, but he does hear him when his voice rises as he asks, "Is that why I'm dead and he's lost? Yes, I suppose we were both better off without you. Death has been kinder to me than life with you ever was."

"Liar," Milah gasps.

Tears build in her eyes, fall down her cheeks. Killian isn’t stupid enough to think it a trick of the light when her tears begin to streak with blood, just drags Aiden with him so that he’s right at Milah’s side. They both fall to their knees beside her. Keeping one hand on the wand, he presses his other to Milah's shoulder.

"You have to calm down," Killian says and pulls her closer to him. The river swells, splashing against his knees. Her body shakes in his arm, knotted with the same rage that burns in the black water. Her tears stop but the blood remains.

Gaze still firmly fixed on her husband's shade, she adds, voice croaking, "I need to find Baelfire. Do this for your son."

“Send him back into your _loving_ arms?” When she lifts the light again, his eyes don’t even flicker towards it. “Not a chance, Milah. You'd have to pry the secrets of his location from my corpse, and you already tried that. It didn't work out for you then, dearie, and it won't work out for you now.”

Milah's control snaps so hard and fast that he nearly drops the wand trying to pull them both back from the swelling river. The water blisters where it touches, urging him to let Milah go, scratch the pain away.

She drops the fairy light into the water. It melts from pale blue to a volcanic red before it dips beneath the surface. Killian keeps pulling her back but the river advances faster than he can and Milah reaches forward instead, grabbing at her husband’s shade and only touching air.

With a curse, Killian loses his hold on the wand and uses both hands to grab hold of Milah before she falls into the black river. She thrashes in his grip, one elbow rising towards his face. He tightens his hold. A voice whistles in his ears but he can’t hear it over the booming in his head, a giant’s heartbeat speeding to life.

Killian could strangle Milah, use her hair as a noose to calm her rage for good. It would be so easy. It's so much harder, holding her back than it is to let her tumble into that river, let her die the way she wants. It's easier to take that from her, and it would be so much more fun to watch the light drain from her eyes so he'd never have to deal with her and her troubles again.

"Yes, join us," Rumplestiltskin cackles. Killian lifts his gaze from Milah’s dark curls to see her crippled husband tread in the water. He looks more alive than he did moments before. The hatred of the Styx agrees with him.

"Me and you, Milah, we could be a happy family again."

Milah drags Killian forward even more. Water splashes at her chest and she doesn’t even notice, the hateful woman. "I never loved you, and even in death I never would," Milah gasps. Killian jerks her back by her hair and she barely even flinches as strands are yanked from her scalp by his rough grip. He’ll just have to pull harder.

The wand slams to the ground before them, pushes back the water. Both Milah and Killian reach at the same time, eager to push the wand out of their paths.

Coming back to himself for the second or third time this day - or this century, for he can’t tell anymore whether the hour he feels he’s spent down here hasn’t been hundreds of years instead - Killian says, "Saving us is all in a day's work, isn't it, mate?" The murderous rage cools in a second, replaced by regret. With one hand still on Milah’s back, Killian says, "Sorry about that."

Milah remains mute, her gaze still fixed on where Rumplestiltskin stood only moments before. He disappeared with the crack of the staff. Her shoulders are still lifted high, but the defeat doesn't need to reach the rest of her form for Killian to know it's there.

The blood on her cheeks starts to flake away and the last of it fades when the tears, bloodless ones, leave her eyes. Milah has one hand on the staff but her fingers tremble.  Killian watches her hand while rubbing circles into her back and says, "If you let go, you'll never find him and you swore to me that you would."

Milah scoffs, opens her hand but leaves her palm flat to the staff. "I swore to Bae that I would never leave his side and I left. I swore to Rumplestiltskin that I would love him forever, no matter what, and I sent him, knowingly, to his death. I've sworn so much and broken every last one, why would this be any different?"

He stills his hand on her back, prepping himself for grabbing her wrist and forcing her to hold the damn staff. “You swore you wouldn't let me die, and here I am."

Milah laughs this time. Killian relaxes. "That's on you, not me."

“You don’t have to be modest with me, darling. Now, please, grab the staff and let’s leave this place.”

“Grab the staff?” Milah says. If he had any free hands, he’d drag it across his face when she adds, “Is that what you tell all your lovers? Seductive. _Romantic_.”

Teasing is all her words should be but anger flares instead.

... _and we can work towards...romance._

Killian tenses, his hand fisting in her shirt. Obvious, but she won’t notice, not with her hand rubbing at the water on her cheeks. “Let’s just go, Milah.”

With each other's help, they make it to their feet. It's hard to stand properly, let alone walk comfortably with the three of them holding the staff. When Milah sighs, the snakes hiss on Aiden's arms and twine up to his shoulders to glare at her.

"We have to make this easier on ourselves," Milah says. "Aiden, ask them if they can transform into another shape."

Aiden shakes his head. "They can hear you and they think you're rude.” The snakes hiss again while Milah shrugs. Killian feels much the same. Aiden and the snakes share a ‘What can you do?’ look and he says, "It’ll be easier after we cross Asphodelos."

Bewildered, Killian and Milah look at each other. The wand begins to pull again and as it pulls them forward in an awkward, fumbling shuffle that is frankly embarrassing enough that Killian knows Hermes is watching and laughing, the wand parts the river. Beneath the water isn't soil but sharp volcanic rock that burns at his feet as much as the water had. They speed up their shuffle, Killian eager to get through it with his shoes at least partially intact.

Killian's boots burn away long before they get across and it feels like it's searing the flesh from his skin, almost so unbearable that he'd rather let the water take him.

He catches himself before he lets go of the staff, catches Aiden and Milah too. "Move faster. We are not dying like this."

"Good call," Aiden comments, for the first time sounding like the Underworld is as much of a strain on him as it is on Killian. It makes him feel a little better for being so weak to the press of dark feelings all around him.

When they step onto the opposite bank, the pain ceases. His boots _and_ his feet haven't burned away and now that he is realizing it, the water that had burned so much when he'd been trying to save Milah from herself hasn't left any mark behind either.

(Is this place just one big trick played on those that would dare come here while alive?)

Killian imagines Anna would say so - and it kills him, easier than the Underworld in its many continued attempts, to think of her and not have her by his side.

(He's so in love that it’s killing him.)

His feet move on their own across the dull grey fields, his mind moving somewhere else ( _somewhere better_ ) but still he snaps back to life the second he sees him. Killian could ignore every other shade in here and their cold forms flitting through his body, but this one, the sight ices him over.

And then all it does is burn.

Every’s shade approaches slowly, sizing Killian up. "I didn't expect to find you here, although I have been waiting."

"Really?" Killian drawls. Milah and Aiden try to move forward, but Killian plants his feet firmly on the ground, facing the shade of the murdered pirate.

Murdered by _him_. Killian wishes he could reach out and do it again when the man smiles and bows to Killian. "Of course. A man such as yourself would never make it to Elysium, and they reserve Tartarus for the most awful. Even you and I are not worth that fate.” He sighs, lifting his hand to scratch his upper lip. “I don't begrudge you what you did, Mr. Jones."

"It's Captain, now," Killian says.

" _Captain_ Jones. Following in your brother's footsteps?"

His silence speaks for him.

"Or following in mine? Tell me, Killian, how is the post-revenge life working out for you? Is it everything you ever dreamed when you were plotting how to kill me?"

"Better," Killian says.

"You sound bitter," Every says. "Not better."

(A bit of both, to be true.)

"The air in here will do that to the living, I suppose,” Killian explains.

"I sensed that there was something wrong about you. Well, I'll see you another day then."

Every is a good liar even in death, but his anger always got the better of him, and it does so again. He steps before Killian and the only thing keeping his ghostly blade from touching Killian is the blinding light of the staff.

Every spits. "I'll keep a spot ready, just for you."

"Your kindness does not go without note," Killian says, and finally let’s go of his hold on the ground, ignoring the wave of the pirate’s blade, now burning with spectral flames. He follows the path that the light cuts through the field of shades. Where before he could ignore them, now he searches their faces as he passes, the worry gnawing at him.

Liam. He would never end up in the same place as that monster and, yet, Killian worries. The judges of the dead aren't known for truly judging the weight of a person's soul. Every’s appearance here is proof of that. Even Tartarus is too kind a place for him. He doesn’t belong in the fields.

"Killian," Milah starts.

Aiden judges his mood better. He grunts in Milah's direction and she sighs. "I hate this place."

Looking up at the skies, Aiden murmurs, "I'm sure it feels the same about us."

"Really? Because I believe this is it being welcoming.”

Milah manages a laugh at her own joke. Aiden returns it with a smile.

Killian only urges them on faster, still searching and growing more frantic as they get closer to end of the field. On one turn to avoid the larger groups of shades, three men step into their path, unseeing of the living trio, too busy talking to notice.

"...I swear she was a princess."

"Princesses don't fight."

"Now, you're just being idiotic."

"She would've pulled in a proper bounty. Our weight in gold."

The shade's voice is wistful. "Our _weight_ in gold."

Killian's search becomes easier after that. If these are the kind of people that the judges thought deserved the fields, surely Liam had achieved Elysium. Surely he rests there with their mother. The only person he hopes to see here is his father, but as they finally reach the end and start to get pulled towards a pool of clear water, Killian sees nothing more than other unknown shades.

"Ah, Mnemosyne," Aiden says.

Killian starts to ask until the sparkling mist above the pool before them begins to unfold into a vision - Aiden, Milah and Killian aboard Milah's ship, Killian's face buried in Milah's shoulder while she laughs.

"You couldn't hold your drink back then,” Milah comments.

"I still can't," Killian says, smiling. It’s easy for a moment, he feels less weighted by the darkness around him. As they’re pulled closer to the water, the mist parts to reveal a boat.

"Oh look, it has a place for Hermes' wand,” Killian points out.

Milah chuckles and it’s a sound so sweet that the next vision that unfolds before them is them in her cabin, Killian at her desk while Aiden and she share a drink on the bed, all of them laughing.

“Helpful.”

They make sure they’re all on the boat before they let go of the wand, Milah placing it in the allotted spot. The snakes stay wound around Aiden’s arm - he coos at them as he takes a place at the helm.

The small boat starts to sail on its own and Killian slides down to the floor of the boat, Milah doing the same across from him. Unwilling to be alone with his thoughts, he nods at her. “How did you manage to trick Hermes out of his staff?”

Milah raises an eyebrow. “Did he say that? He gave it to me, Killian.”

Killian opens his mouth and closes it when Milah raises her hand. He waits and she continues to explain.

“I was hoping he could guide me to Baelfire. I sacrificed to him…” She trails off and Killian thinks of Anna without meaning to (isn’t that how it always is?) Would she think killing to be the answer here, as Milah had? He’s not sure he wants the answer because he knows which one he would give.

“He came to me and I asked him and he said the only person who would be able to guide me was in the Underworld. I knew what he meant. He offered his wand and said it would protect me. _Guide_ me to the proper guide.”

Killian frowns.

“But you didn’t take it with you.”

“I made the fairy light with the wand. I thought it would be sufficient. It brought Rumplestiltskin to me. But…”

They fall silent and Killian would love to distract her but his thoughts drift again, memories playing in his mind. His mother. Liam. Every. Ursula. Milah. Aiden. Places far and wide - he journeys through his own memory, a traveler racing from scene to scene.

Victor. Hawke. His crew.

Anna. Henry.

“Why did you come for me?” Milah asks, gaze fixed on Aiden’s back. “Killian.”

Killian escapes his memory gratefully. He watches as Milah nudges her hat in her lap. He didn’t even notice that Aiden had given it back to her. Milah continues to stare at Aiden.

“I swear things too, from time to time, and you’ve pulled me back from the edge before. I swore I would return the favor,” he says.

Quietly, Milah says. “You didn’t consider it a favor at the time.”

Killian smiles. “I still don’t.”

Her voice changes, rises in surprise. “Really? What’s changed?”

“What do you mean?”

Milah turns to look at him. Her eyes move across his face, brows dipping closer together the longer she stares. Killian lifts his in response.

“I was going to ask you to come with me,” she announces. “When I heard you were going to Ursula’s island, I raced there to meet you because I knew I would need you for this. But -”

Killian takes in a breath, careful to keep his gaze steady on her when she speaks. He doesn’t trust Mnemosyne not to play out his feelings should his gaze drop on the water.

Milah finally says, “But you seemed so much happier. For the first time, you seemed...bright. I couldn’t take that away from you. It’s why I sent you towards Midas instead. I couldn’t take that from you, not after everything, but I suppose I didn’t have to.”

“Bright? Come now, Milah, that must’ve been Apollo playing games with your eyes,” Killian lies easily.

Milah doesn’t say anything more, always so accepting of his lies as he is with hers. At the same time, they turn their gazes towards the water and a vision stirs in the mist, Milah’s sword at his throat.

“You know,” she says, watching his younger self press his dagger to her stomach. “If you were a bit older, with a bit more hair on your chin, I’d have fallen for you.”

Killian smiles. “That’s alright. I prefer my women to actually want me.”

Milah draws her gaze back to him and it’s the only warning Killian gets that she isn’t as accepting of his lies as he thought.

“Did _she_ not want you, then?”

Killian fights everything in him not to think of Anna, draws his gaze away from the water as the mist begins to swirl again, but it’s too late, Milah’s eyes are on the open neck of his shirt where he knows her Swan rests amongst his necklaces and Anna’s smile won’t leave his head.

“I might’ve told you differently another day,” he says.

He lifts his eyes to Milah. She accepts his plea and instead of pressing him, says, “Another day, then.”

Another day passes and another. They spend enough time on the boat that Killian manages to fall asleep. He awakens to Aiden’s hand on his shoulder and Hermes’ snakes inches away from his face.

“The boat’s docked.”

Killian stretches and stands. “Do you see an exit?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” Aiden says and Killian closes his eyes again. As much as he wants to leave, he has no interest in facing yet another monster or god.

Thankfully - for the god - his interest doesn’t matter.

“I admit, milady,” Killian says as the black-cloaked woman steps onto the boat. “I do not know who you are.”

She drops her hood and Killian laughs. She doesn’t need to ask, but she does anyway. “Do you know me now?”

Across her face, lines of magic crawl, some in languages he recognizes, others in languages he could never learn. When she smiles, the lines still into something he can vaguely recognize in the few words of that language he knows.

_Door. God._

_Swan_.

He bites his inner cheek and curses inwardly. _Magic_. In mockery of his anger, the lines of magic change into hieroglyphs, ones that he remembers all too clearly as swirling in the flames of Set’s temple.

The world dims around him. Hecate’s cloak becomes part of the darkness that encloses them and all that lights his vision are her eyes, a pale purple, and the magic of her skin.

“Your path only leads to one place,” she says firmly.

Killian snaps.  Done being polite, he says, “Everyone’s does. Mere men do not live forever.”

She places her hands palms up. Magic lines melt off her fingertips and drift upwards. Killian would not be able to translate them as words, but they transform into pictures, easy for his eyes to understand. Him, chased by a boy with a smile like a demon’s.

“He is going to catch up to you,” she says.

“No doubt.”

 _Tell me something I don’t know_.

She stares at him, too knowing. “It’s your choice when and how he does. Whatever you think about where your life has led, the people who have entered it…”

Before her flit many faces. Friends and foes. Lovers.

“...and the people who have exited it..."

Killian tries to find the humor in her words, fighting off rising fury with the fact that she doesn't show Anna there. Liam, his mother, his father, Every: they all appear, but Anna doesn't. He tries not to think too deeply into that, instead focuses on the fact that he was right. Anna is safe, at least from this land of death.

(Safe from him,)

"You're probably wrong," she says.

She quiets. The pictures disappear and the magic drips back down into her fingertips, flowing back over her palms and beneath her cloak.

"Is that so?" Killian asks. "You aren't very helpful, are you?”

Her purple eyes wink. "I can show you the way out, and if you so choose, a way in."

Killian narrows his gaze. “A way in...To what?"

"That is up to you.” She shrugs and he recognizes other words flitting across her face, none of them making sense. _Door_ , again. _Dragon’s flight_. _Prince._

He shakes his head. "This nonsense is too much for me. Are you putting Aiden and Milah through this as well?"

Hecate flickers as Hermes did, but instead of separate people, her form becomes three identical women melded together. "Sometimes, my natural form comes in handy," she says with another wink.

He grits his teeth and allows space for her to speak. After a while she turns back into one person and says, "Have you decided?"

"I haven't even given your offer any thought."

"I know," she says. "But have you decided?"

Hermes voice comes to him. He’s sure it was meant to, after all, Hermes considers Killian’s life entertainment. _Your uncertainty of your path will not help you..._ and Hecate has made it no clearer. Still, it doesn't matter. He doesn't need proper thought to give a decision. He would end up coming to the same one even with years of thought on the subject.

_...and we can work towards...romance._

He doesn't voice it though because it's a decision that he could never make on his own. Anna’s the only one who could give him a way in - a way into her heart. Hecate smiles knowingly and, slowly, the darkness lifts and he can see Milah and Aiden again.

Aiden looks much the same as Killian feels, face scrunched and eyes narrowed, but Milah - her face is brighter than it has been in years. Her smile looks real.

(Was that what she saw when they were in Ursula’s tavern?)

"Hermes will like his staff back," Hecate says. When she raises her arm, her cloak lifts and rises - continues to rise higher than her, higher than should be possible, and circles back down to the ground. With a blink of purple light, Hecate disappears leaving the black doorway behind.

Words of magic banner the doorway but it’s in a language Killian doesn’t know. He looks to Milah and Aiden, and back to the dark doorway. It isn't a question of whether they trust the goddess not to send them anywhere dangerous, merely a question of when to walk through. Milah makes it for them by moving to pull the staff from its hold.

They step through the black doorway in silent unison. The Gates of Dusk seal closed behind them, the rock face becoming flat once again.

Dusk has never looked so beautiful.

Aiden's whistle cuts through the air and sears through Killian’s ears. A whistle, less deafening, answers back from Milah's ship.

"They'll send a boat down,” Aiden says.

Milah nods when Killian looks at her. "Good, this water is cold."

Killian returns his gaze to the welcome skyline. He wants to question Milah on what Hecate told her, but more, he wants to remain with his own thoughts a little while longer. He had been right. He shouldn't have spoken of Set. It only made his fate more pressing - and perhaps, that pressing fate is what had sent Anna running.

"Killian, you're going to need that to be disinfected," Milah says.

He looks at his arm, the skin torn open from his nails, and then looks at his other hand, blood still beneath his fingernails. It doesn't hurt, but she’s right. There's no telling what he could've picked up in the Underworld and he'll need both hands if he's to do anything about the bloody demon. He doesn't have time to learn to live without it, not like the members of his crew that have, although they swear by their hooks being almost better than a hand.

_Easier to pick your teeth._

_Or gouge your eyes out when Smee forgets to wear his belt and bends over._

Killian finds himself laughing. Milah doesn't look concerned. Aiden, however, fixes him with a look. Killian shrugs and finally says, "You're right, as always, my darling Milah."

"As always," she confirms.

When the boat finally arrives, Killian's boots are soaked through and he almost misses the heat of the Underworld when he takes them off while seated on the floor of the boat. Leaning over the edge, he empties the waters in his boots back into the ocean.

"Bloody hell," Milah says, following suit.

"It was fairly bloodless, I reckon," Killian replies.

This draws a hearty chuckle from her mouth, and then another from Hermes when he blinks into the space beside her, wrapping his arm over her shoulder.

"My wand," he says.

She hands it over to him without protest. He smiles beneath the wide brim of his hat - a different color now...

"Hey?" Killian asks, tapping a hand on Milah's boatman. "How long were we underground?"

"A few days,” he says.

"Lovely."

Turning back to Hermes, he says, “Thank you for your warnings.”

Hermes lifts his hat to look at Killian. His smile is small, but Killian senses it’s more humored than it appears when Hermes says, quite sincerely, “You’re very welcome.”

“You found your guide,” Hermes says.

“I did. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Hermes grins and kicks up off the boat floor, rocking it precariously. By the time they regain their bearings, Hermes is gone.

Milah shakes her head as they approach her ship. “Moor beside Captain Jones’ ship. I need to speak with him there.”

As she’s retying her boots, Milah leans into him and says, “Victor has something I need. To find Bae.”

Killian nods. “Of course. The goddess told you this?”

“He isn’t in this world, and Victor’s potion will guide me to the bean I need to travel worlds.”

She speaks so fast and her voice so high that Killian barely has a chance to process her words before she’s clambering up the rope ladder of his ship. Killian races to tie up his own still wet boots and follow after her.

“But what does Victor have?”

Milah doesn’t turn back to look at him, but she shouts down, “Love Potion #9.”

-

“Emmet, gave this to you?” Killian asks while Milah stares at the little pink bottle in her hand.

It’s too small for all the faith Milah has placed in it already. Killian wants to pull it away from her, tell her to find another way, he doesn’t trust it…

“He did. Said he stole it from Walsh and needed a place to stash it,” Victor confirms. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind Milah using it.”

Killian nods curtly. Milah looks up at him. “I need to leave now - I can’t wait. I’m sorry, Killian, I’d stay longer but...I just can’t.”

He stands from his seat on his desk and pulls her towards him in a hug. Victor makes a noise like disgust, which helps lessen the emotion of the moment. When he lets Milah go, though, her eyes shine.

“Don’t tell Baelfire about me,” Killian says.

Milah nods. “I would never.”

With a quick step, she takes Victor’s arm and drags him out of Killian’s cabin, question after question spilling from her lips.

Killian should see her off. He should, but he’s tired and Milah is already gone - and he feels lost. Lost in his own thoughts, lost on his own damn ship. Everything looks a little different, a little emptier.

He revealed part of his past to Anna here, with Henry lying beside him on the bed that Killian can’t see himself sleeping in at the moment, despite the fatigue in his bones.

“Captain.”

Killian looks to Henry. The boy has a tray of food in one hand, and Anna’s book in the other. It looks uncomfortable so Killian moves to grab the tray.

Henry’s eyes catch on his neck and Killian lets out a weak laugh. “A parting gift from A-Emmet.”

He turns around so Henry doesn’t see the way his breath catches at the sway of necklace across his neck. Henry doesn’t give him much time to regroup.

At least he has the tray resting on his desk when Henry asks, “When you were down there, you didn’t find Emmet, right?”

Killian turns sharply. “No, of course not.”

Henry nods and his shoulders don’t slump with relief, but his chin tilts up. He pulls the book from under his arm, holding it tight in his hands. “Well, I didn't expect that you would. In the letter, Emmet said to fill the book with more adventures for him, you know?”

Killian vaguely remembers that - but her _decision_ is what he spent hours running his mind over, not her request.

Henry goes on. “I’ve spent some time thinking what adventures we could go on.”

“You have?”

Henry nods, and chin still lifted high, he says, “We’re going to find Emmet. What could be a better adventure than that?”

Killian opens his mouth to...deny him? He doesn’t know. A day ago, well, rather days ago, he’d let Henry’s defeat keep him rooted to his ship, and now the boy’s suggesting that they go after Emmet on some grand adventure? He looks at Henry. The boy glares back at him, daring Killian to go against him. Killian sits forward in his seat, and Henry steps into him.

Well, he may no longer be pretending at being a prince, but even here, he can hold court with the best of them; Anna taught him well.

“Aye, what could?”

Henry nods. “I’m glad you agree, Captain. Enjoy your meal. Colonel Pain made it special. Emmet’s favorite soup.” Henry turns around and starts to walk towards the doorway. He stops there and turns back around. “I already checked for hairs. Goodnight, Captain.”

Killian laughs until Henry shuts the door behind him. His laughter fades into the night and he twists around to stare at his soup. _Emmet’s favorite_. Was that a truth or something Anna had pretended at, too?

His stomach coils into uncertainty and he leaves the soup on the desk. After a moment of thought, he lifts the necklace off his neck and places it on the desk as well.

Killian doesn’t need food. He needs the blissful, dreamless sleep that alcohol brings. He lost his flask in the Underworld, but he has a whole bottle in his closet and by the time he’s through with that he won’t remember anything he’s lost and when he goes to dream, he won’t remember anything at all.

 


	12. operation phoenix 2; to be a true hero, kid, is a dying art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long, I know, but hey I have not given up this fic at all, and I hope this chapter makes up for the delay and I hope that I'll be update far more frequently than I have (which is not hard to accomplish, I know, but...) I want to thank every single person who's encouraged me not to give up on this fic and asked me for updates and left kudos and just made me feel like this story is as loved as I want it to be. Y'all are gems!

“I know where we should start,” Henry says.

The boy didn’t even knock. It’s an impertinence that Killian would tear apart any other crew member for. Henry, he merely eyeballs groggily as he rubs at his face. He needs a shave, but he can deal with that after he deals with Henry, who’s now situated himself on the edge of Killian’s bed, body thrumming with enough energy that Killian can feel the tremors.

“Start for what?” Killian asks.

Memory creeps in slowly, inching its way across his vision. Milah, the Underworld, _Anna_. Killian opens his eyes, the vision of his cabin little better than the memory, knowing what’s awaiting him outside of it.

(Nothing, nothing at all.)

“For finding Emmet,” Henry says. His gaze narrows as he stares at Killian. “You agreed last night. Pirate’s oath.”

_Pirate’s oath?_

“I didn’t swear anything,” Killian says.

“You didn’t have to. A captain’s word is his word, isn’t it?”

Killian doesn’t have the heart to correct him on his mistaken belief, so, in a tone that is not quite eager and warier than he’s sure Henry would like, he asks, “Where is it that you plan for us to begin?”

In actuality, Henry doesn’t even seem to notice Killian’s tone, or he pays it no mind, while Killian finally notices the book in his hands when Henry thrusts it open, flipping through pages and pages of handwritten stories. Killian catches a list here and there, some hand-drawn pictures, but Henry makes land on a simple story. _Sleeping Beauty._

“We track him down. But we’ll need magic for that, and unless the crew has some secret powers that I haven’t seen, it means we’ll have to find a witch or a wizard. There’s a list in here of those to avoid, but I’ve found a few who might be able to help. It’s a long journey from here, I think.” Henry face constricts. “I don’t really know where we are? But we’ll need to incentivize the crew.”

Henry blurts this out in a hasty, excited breath that broaches no room for Killian’s melancholia, no reason to voice the squeezing ache in his chest, so he focuses in on Henry’s words.

“Incentivize? Where’d you learn that?” he asks.

“Emmet wrote it in here: _Things I Have Learned (Through Suffering)_.” Reading from memory, Henry says, “Apparently, I will do anything if I’m incentivized enough; although I wouldn’t like to consider certain death an incentive.”

Henry nods, a small smile forming.

“I suggest gold for getting the crew on board. Pirates like gold,” Henry says.

An understatement. Killian stares at Henry directly.

“Do you think _I_ need an incentive?”

He won’t blame Henry for thinking so. After all, Killian himself had said they weren’t going after her, and for a moment, a brief moment, he’d meant it with all of his heart - all that was still left, he supposed.

Henry sounds remarkably like Anna’s imitation of Killian’s “pirate” voice when he answers, “Not you, but those miscreants out there?”

Killian laughs and when the sound fades out, he’s still smiling as he extends a hand towards Anna’s book.

“May I borrow that?” he asks.

“Sure,” Henry says. “Only, I already made the list of witches and wizards - and there’s the Blue Fairy, too, but I don’t know if she’ll help us.”

Killian takes the book out of his hands and says, “Henry, may I have a moment? I’ll call upon you when I’m ready to start mapping out our journey.”

“Sure,” Henry says.

He doesn’t move for a spell, and then in a quiet voice says, “I don’t know if you know, but he wrote about you in there. I’m sorry about what happened with you and Ursula. That wasn’t fair.”

Killian nods, unsure what to say to that. Life isn’t fair. It wasn’t fairness that took his brother from him or left him bleeding out in the middle of the ocean or -

Killian nods again, unsure what to say when Anna thought his story worth putting in her book, that it was a story worth telling.

“I’ll be back with breakfast as soon as Victor stops hoarding Colonel Pain’s time,” Henry says.

“Yell at him for me, will you?” Killian asks.

“Yes, Captain,” Henry says and slips out of the room.

Killian hears the yelling as the door shuts behind him. He didn’t mean for Henry to take that seriously, but, it can’t be helped.

He looks down at the book in his hands. The pages are so creased on one story that all he has to do is slip his hand between the pages to find it.

 _The Little Mermaid_.

And where someone had penned a different story in black ink, Anna’s handwriting glimmers in dark blue, a word scratched out here and there, a phrase completely darkened in blue - and Killian’s name emblazoned on the page.

He traces over a smudged word. Something wet must have fallen when she was writing it, it’s hard to make out for a moment - and then it all becomes clear, “...hatches a heroic rescue.”

Would Anna still have thought it so heroic had she known why he was really there on that ship? Would she think it heroic if she knew that even as he helped Ursula escape, all he could think about was all the crimes he planned to commit, far worse than even this?

Vengeance still has a bitter taste after all these years, like salt water filling his lungs and smoke burning in his eyes.

He closes them for a moment, drifting in between dark memories until the page crinkles under his finger. Reopening them, he flips the book all the way to the beginning and starts to read.

Killian finds Anna in every page of the book even when her writing is nowhere to be found, on the frequently thumbed edges, in a spill here or there, no doubt ink knocked over by a careless elbow or a meal spent reading her book at the table.

There’s a bloodstained thumbprint on one of the pages. _Tips of an Adventurer_. He eyes the smear next to the phrase, “Always keep home on your mind because straying too far might mean your life.”

It is Anna’s handwriting, so it must be Anna’s bloodied thumbprint.

Had she strayed too far with him and his crew? “Home,” was obviously not here with them.

So, what kind of home had she kept on her mind? What kind of place had she considered worth leaving...and worth returning to?

He’ll have to ask her when he finds her. He’ll have to ask her a lot of things, in fact.

Henry knocks this time, which Killian is grateful for. He finally lifts up from the bed to stretch out his legs. Dropping Anna’s book on the desk, he says, “Come in.”

“I left Henry in Smee’s, ah, _good_ hands, but Killian we need to talk.”

Of course, Henry will knock when he isn’t actually Henry.

“Doctor, what is it that we need to talk about?” he asks as Victor strides in, hands grasping the tray of Killian’s breakfast.

“Henry says you’re mapping out a journey to find a witch that’ll lead us to Emmet? Are you sure that’s wise?”

Killian’s not sure wisdom ever comes into the equation when his heart is on the line. If Killian had ever been wise, then it was in the moments when he had nothing to care for and no one who mattered to him. And even then, he’d had the wisdom only to survive. Get to the next port, steal from this person and that. Drink away your sorrows and be merry. Be merry even when you’re not sure what that’s supposed to feel like.

“What I’m really uncertain about is why you’re asking me this question,” Killian says. He looks at the tray in Victor’s hands. “Also, why you’re still holding my breakfast.”

Victor crosses the room and sets the food down on Killian’s desk. His eyes flicker to the book, then to the tray of soup from the night before, and he says, “Did you get to the part where he wrote my story? He did a fine job of that one.”

It doesn’t sound like pride and Victor’s smile is too small to be anything but wistful. Killian knows Victor’s story. It isn’t a happy one.

“It seems Emmet found us worth writing about amongst the great tales of princes, princesses, witches and wizards,” Killian says.

Victor places a hand behind his head. “Well, pirates make for good stories. Everyone knows that.”

“Do we, though? Good stories, or just sad ones?”

Killian jerks his head towards the lighted window. It’s going to be a cold day, he can feel it already.

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Victor asks.

“That Emmet doesn’t want us to find him, but we have to anyway. Because I need to know.”

Victor slowly drops his hand from behind his head. He has that doctoring look in his eyes; Killian _is_ afflicted but he it isn’t anything Victor can heal.

“Need to know what?” Victor asks.

“Whether we’re _just_ stories,” Killian says.

“I’m not sure I get your question.”

Killian stares at him and then, scraping a hand down his face again, says, “I’m tired and hungry, Victor. Tell Smee to set a course back to our last port. We’ll pick up the trail there.”

-

Killian knows a liar when he meets one, but Granny Lucas has him stepping back instead of pressing her for information, and it’s not because Henry tugs at his sleeve. It’s the crossbow she has resting at her elbow, casually enough that Killian knows she’d put a bolt through him before he stepped any closer.

“Thank you for your help,” Killian says insincerely.

“No problem,” she says just as insincerely.

Granny keeps her eyes on him as he walks backwards out of the tavern, and he keeps his eyes on her crossbow.

“Red left, too,” Henry says when they’re safely out of range. He paces across the doorstep, doing a little hop on his toes as he says, “That must mean something.”

“Emmet preferred her company to ours?” Killian asks.

Henry lets Killian know how much he appreciates the sarcasm with a roll of his eyes.

“No. It means that Emmet isn’t in danger. Red wouldn’t hurt him.”

The certainty draws him, and Killian asks, “What makes you say that?”

“Red’s too nice for that,” Henry says simply.

Naiveté shouldn’t be a crime, but when you’re already a criminal...

“Henry,” Killian starts, dragging out his name.

It is pity that mars his face, and annoyance that mars Henry’s.

“I know a bad person when I meet one. Red’s like Emmet. She has a good heart,” Henry says.

Well.

Killian can’t argue with that.

“So onto our next step,” Henry says, seemingly undaunted by their bad luck for a moment, but slowly the frown spreads from his brow downwards.

“Which is?” Killian asks.

“Well, I know she’s on the bad list, but -” Henry frowns deeper, but his tone is far from pleading, rather daring Killian to deny him when he says, “But she’s _so_ close.”

Killian doesn’t exactly like the way this is headed, but he’s embraced danger before, if this is going to help him find Anna, then he’ll welcome it with open arms.

“Who is it?”

“Her island’s not supposed to be very far away from here, Queen Circe,” Henry says.

Killian could laugh, he certainly could, remembering that damn palace where he’d spent an uncomfortable amount of time as a piglet (not even a pig, but perhaps Circe prefers suckling pig to bacon; why she would Killian can’t possibly fathom.) He remembers a song, sung off-key, but not much else besides jogging for his life with Anna lingering behind, cringing at every fallen man and their falling pants, completely unaware of his wondering gaze - because of the _change_ -

Circe had cursed her, turned her from Anna to Emmet.

Until he kissed her.

(Ignoring the implications of that is easy when it’s too much like hope for him to set his stock in.)

“You do know that she eats men?” Killian says.

Henry nods. “I know. Anna underlined it in the book. ‘The pork is people.’ She underlined it _and_ circled it. Twice. But it’s worth a try. Maybe she won’t find us so appetizing."

“This time around,” Killian mutters.

“This time around,” Henry echoes with the confidence that Killian’s words were lacking.

It’s almost jaunty, the smile Henry gives him like it’s just another walk through the Enchanted Forest, facing down a cannibalistic witch queen.

Perhaps it is. The Enchanted Forest _is_ overrun with the mystical.

-

Killian doesn’t want to bring him, but Henry insists so much that he’ll take the risk of having to carry the boy to the ship rather than the headache of pretending Henry isn’t following behind them. Locking the boy away is an unkindness that Killian won’t force on him, so letting Henry accompany him to sure is his only option.

“Circe has a weakness for women. She protects them,” Henry says excitedly, trekking far ahead of their trudging footsteps. “We should've brought a girl.”

Killian could laugh.

He really could.

Perhaps if there was anything funny to laugh it.

“That might’ve been a helpful suggestion before we dropped anchor or left civilization behind,” Killian says.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on Henry. He shouldn’t be the only one doing the thinking.”

Killian swivels towards Victor. “Aye, he _shouldn’t_.”

Victor shrugs, unperturbed. “I have been doing some thinking, Captain, and I -” Pausing, Victor shakes his head and leaves the rest of his sentence unsaid. It feels important. In fact, Killian knows that it’s important because of the way Victor looks at him and looks away, but his gaze has the kind of weight to it that is pitying and avoiding that is worth more than whatever Victor needs to say.

The palace rises before them in all its splendor, but where it once looked like paradise in the middle of nowhere, now it just looks as it is: slow and agonizing death.

And of course, Death takes its loveliest form in the Queen herself as she comes out to meet them, hands raised. Magic swirls at her fingertips, a lively green that is all invitation, dripping at the edges like the sweetest of poisons.

“An offering at my doorstep, come so willingly to the slaughter…”

They're off to an excellent start.

“I don’t get return visitors. Not that my guests usually leave, but those that make that mistake never seem to make that mistake twice. Except you.”

Killian takes his opening. “Except us. Come now, you wouldn't want to eat someone that stupid, would you? Surely it’d be hard to swallow.”

Circe acknowledges his stupidity with a regal nod. She whips back her long, dark braids with her hand, and her smile is gracious when she asks, “You want something, pirate?”

(Pirate instead of Captain. The distaste is noted.)

She looks them over and Killian knows what her narrowed gaze is looking for. “Or someone?”

“You’re a sharp woman, Your Majesty,” he says with no amount of sarcasm.

None whatsoever.

She grins. Her incisors look like knives, ready to rip through him, and it’s a look that says he need not be a piglet for that to happen.

“I am. Let’s not stand out here any longer. I want explanations and I’d like to sit while I hear your plea for help.”

Killian, Henry, and Victor follow her through the arched doorway, and this should have been a sign when they first arrived. They were as much idiots then as they are now, to walk into these marbled halls held up with pillars carved into the shape of suffering men and ask its architect for help. They’re the worst kinds of fools: desperate ones.

“Those are really...life-like,” Henry whispers, but it’s loud enough for Circe to catch.

"They were once. Alive," Circe says in all seriousness.

She steps onto a winding staircase and takes them up and up, keeping her gaze turned back on them. It’s eerie how she never misses a step. They reach the top onto a circular surface that seems supported by nothing at all, which Killian takes to mean that it’s supported on the backs of all the men Circe has trapped. They are, after all, nothing to her. She crosses to the center of the room, to a golden throne in the shape of a crow, to match the flurry of them at her back, all their beady eyes focused on him.

He can appreciate her dedication to the aesthetic.

“You must have really strong magic. That’s cool," Henry says.

Circe blinks at him rapidly, surprised, and Killian can feel his own expression rising to match. Her tone ventures when she says, “Cool?"

“Awesome. Like, I’m in awe,” Henry says.

The lad is good. His flattery is so innocent that Circe keeps blinking and her regal visage slips enough that Killian can see a way in.

“That’s why we came to seek your guidance, Queen Circe. We’ve lost someone rather important to us, and as the boy stated, your _awesome_ powers would be greatly appreciated in finding them.”

Her regality slips back into place, her magic tip-tapping across her fingers in green sparks. “Lost? You can't misplace a human being. Either they left or they were taken. Which is it?”

A partial truth would do him much good here. No need to mention the letter, and let settle the thought in her mind that Anna’s loss is for the best.

“We don’t know for certain. Perhaps you could give us some insight on that part. She spoke with you, didn’t she?” Killian asks, deliberately letting the ‘she’ slip.

Circe confirms herself the spell caster, says, “Emma’s magic wear off then? Who kissed her?”

The witch looks too eager, in the way that a vulture sets its eyes on a fresh kill. The crows at her back do her no favors either. Killian wrinkles his brow, and gapes at her.

“Who kissed _who_?” he asks.

“It must not have been you then. Was it you?” she asks, turning to Victor.

“I didn’t kiss her. Though, thank you for the confirmation that she is a she. Emma is her name? Makes sense,” Victor answers, clapping his hands together and grinning excitedly.

“Emma?”

Henry looks at the witch wildly, while Killian mirrors the expression, turned towards Victor’s now fading smile. Explanations can come later, but -

“She said her name was Anna,” he murmurs.

She said her name was Anna.

It hurts, but only for the moment it takes for him to realize that it would’ve been too obvious had she said her name was Emma. At least, in her head. He wonders if she even thought that he’d remember her face from before the magic took her - as if he could ever forget it.

“So, you _did_ kiss her?” Circe says. Her already sparkling green heels alighting when they hit the ground at her jump in her seat. He supposes that isn’t a good sign, and her growl, less so. “I knew I should’ve kept watch. Pirates, you just can’t keep your hands to yourselves.”

“She kissed me, actually,” Killian clarifies.

Her eyes spark, too, but he isn’t sure if it’s hate that flickers in them or something else entirely. Her mouth is twitching, and it isn’t downward.

“I’m confused. Emmet is - Emmet is Emma? And you kissed him - her? You _kissed_ her?” Henry asks.

“Emma is Emmet, yes. A woman,” he says to Henry. He ignores Henry’s second question. To Circe, he ventures, “You bespelled her to protect her.”

Her reply isn’t a lie but it’s too slow to be the complete truth. Killian’s dealt in enough half-truths to read the one on her lips.

“Yes, I don’t trust pirates.”

“I thought it was just men in general,” Victor says.

Killian shoots a glare in Victor’s direction, but Henry has it handled, elbowing Victor in the side. Circe, for her part, doesn’t look displeased more than she already has since she met them at the door.

“Men in general do me no harm,” Circe says. “Men in general do not find my island seeking to steal my riches under the guise of seeking my hospitality.” She pauses to take a breath and asks, “Do you know why I turned you into pigs?”

“Piglets,” Victor corrects and gets a second elbow to the gut from Henry.

“It wasn’t because of your manhood. It was because of what you are, and all the dirty underhanded deeds you’ve committed. Emma didn’t fail to turn into a pig because of her womanhood, but because she was pure of heart. Pure in her rather stupid design to protect you men, of all people, although if that is still true remains to be seen.”

Killian latches on to that, asking, “Seen by you? So you do know where to find her?”

“Perhaps,” she says.

“How can we convince you to give us that information?”

“Convince me, hmm,” Circe muses for a moment and then her tone turns entreating, “How about you do something noble for once and just let her go?”

Henry shoots Killian a look that could fall somewhere in between death threat and pleading, so Killian damns the consequences and says, “I don’t believe that abandoning someone I care about is noble, but perhaps my sense of nobility has been skewed. Years of piracy taking its toll and all.”

Circe’s doesn’t comment, not for a long moment, and then she says brightly - a tad too brightly, “I’ve changed my mind. I shall help you, for a price. You’ll need to put those piracy skills to good use. I need a potion, but it’s located somewhere I can’t enter. Since you are wholly mundane, you should have no trouble.”

He ignores the ‘mundane’ part because for once, it doesn’t feel like an insult, and asks, “Where?”

“The Evil Queen’s former residence. In her apothecary is the remaining bite of a poison apple, bottled I believe, but I can’t be certain. It’s all been kept under such lock and key.”

She hangs her head sadly - as if that would be enough to keep his words at bay.

“You want the apple that poisoned Snow White?” Killian asks.

Her eyes flash with warning, and Killian heeds her this time, if only to keep her in her seemingly giving mood. Seemingly, because magic always comes with a price and Circe is nothing but magic, bottled in an unforgivingly beautiful form. Magic seeking more magic, a dangerous path if there ever was one.

Henry however must not see the warning or just opts to ignore it - a mix of the two most likely; Killian knows the lad well enough now that he only operates on foolish bravery, curiosity and nobility. Much like Anna, Emmet, _Emma._

Emma, he tests the name, his chest seizing with a dreadful ache.

Emma.

(He can’t wait to meet her, wonders what she’s like when she’s not hiding behind magicked beards and false names. Wonders if her cheeks will bubble with more happiness - or less when he’s back at her side.)

Even in his momentary lapse into longing, he still winces at Henry's testiness when he says, “Why do you want _that_?”

He turns his head when Victor audibly claps a hand over his face, darting accusing eyes at the doctor’s fraught expression. Henry pays Killian no mind, which is, well dammit it’s a bit galling.

Circe, to her credit, merely tilts one corner of her mouth up at a time, the smile curling across her cheeks, curdling Killian’s hopes of getting any more information out of her. She speaks slowly, choosing every word with care.

“Sleeping curses are so hard to come by nowadays. You never know when you’ll need one.”

Henry’s jaw drops. He takes a step forward, and stresses, “What could you need one for?”

“Henry,” Killian warns - but what good that will do is beyond him to know.

“Teenage boys who ask too many questions,” Circe says, almost like an answer, completely like a threat, but proves it merely a pause when she continues, “intrigue me. Most grown men don’t feel the need to ask questions of a woman. They’d prefer they keep themselves quiet, demure, nothing but dolls to play with and toss aside when they outgrow their use.”

“You’ve met some awfully uninteresting men, love,” Killian says drily.

“My curse,” Circe replies with a weary wave of her hand. It is blink and you’ll miss it, the way her green eyes darken to a deep shade of brown, the weariness real in the lines of her forehead, the ones around her eyes. But the look _is_ truly blink and you’ll miss it and when Killian opens his eyes, it’s gone, her eyes emeralds again to rival the great wizard’s spiral towers.

“My offer is on the table, gentlemen,” she strains over the designation; it’s a reach as high as the clouds floating above them to deem them anything more than pirates, apparently. “Are you going to accept it?”

Killian wars with himself. Accepting a deal from her is inevitably going to come back to haunt him, but it’s worth the risk. However, that doesn’t mean he must go into this unarmed.

“Forgive me my distrust, but I’m going to need you to swear an oath, milady. I can’t risk losing Emma.”

He feels Victor’s gaze hot on him, piercing, knowing, but he shrugs. He’s easily read. Emma worked her way in, and she’s pouring out of him, touching his every expression, his every words tinged with that longing.

She lifts her finger. “I swear to you,” she says, and she doesn’t address it to Killian, her eyes fixed on Henry. That’s when Killian notices the lad returning her gaze with determined eyes, his hands balled into fists, his need almost as palpable as Killian’s in his practically humming form.

“Thank you,” Henry says. “We won’t let you down. We promise.”

“Let’s see how much your promises are worth,” Circe says.

Her disbelief would irk him more if he wasn’t already running through the very little information she’s given him - bottle in an apothecary, here’s to hoping that the Evil Queen liked labels.

“I trust you can find your own way out.”

Trust. That words feels strange coming from the mouth of the witch who turned him into a piglet, but he supposes her oath is as good as any of the ones he’s sworn, and if he can make good on his word, then so can she.

And, she helped Emma. Whatever her reasons - hatred of all men, protecting women, a healthy mixture of the two and a dose of mischief that all these gods throw into the pot that Killian’s likes to call ‘fucking over humans for the hell of it’ - she helped Emma. He can afford her a little of his trust for that alone.

Circe lifts her hands to her braids, unloosening them absentmindedly; they’ll get no more out of her, and if he presses his luck (he wouldn’t dare call this _good_ luck) they’ll probably end up as more trophies to hold up her palace.

The crows follow them down the stairs so Killian doesn’t pose any of the questions or concerns he has about their venture, and worryingly, neither does Henry. Victor clears his throat once, but it isn’t until they’re back on the longboat headed towards the Jolly that he speaks.

“So.”

“So?” Killian snaps, hoping his tone will convey just how very much he does not want to hear the question that Victor is inevitably poised to ask.

Alas, this is his own bloody fault, taking the doctor with him. Alas, there’s no one out of his motley crew that he would’ve preferred by his side for this. It occurs to him that he does not nearly have confidantes if this is the best that he can do, a drunk only a few weeks sober enough to remember the difference between the pancreas and the gall bladder. A difference that Killian truly does not care to know, but Victor has detailed anyway.

“Did you know before or after?”

“How is this question relevant or necessary to our next move?” Killian asks.

Cheerily, Victor says, “It’s neither. I just want to know.”

“How did _you_ know?” Killian deflects very obviously.

Even Henry makes a disgusted noise. He used to be better at this, at lying. He used to better at a host of things that weren’t better.

(He wants to be _better_.)

Victor’s more ready to answer than Killian is, quickly explaining, “Well, I noticed from the beginning. She wasn’t very boyish, but I was ready to accept that she identified as a male, it isn’t uncommon. That is until I heard her muttering about how much she hates men after she had the unfortunate experience of walking in on some of the men engaging in certain…activities. She had some very choice words about being grateful not to be one.”

Killian’s sure Victor only stops himself from saying it aloud for Henry’s benefit, but he appreciates it, too, the image not one he wants to have so clearly painted on his mind as the difference between the gall bladder and the pancreas - and when will he get _that_ out of his mind, damn it. Killian even cracks a smile, imagining Emma’s muttering. He avoids the flash of anger with careful treading, unwilling to be angry on her behalf when the men couldn’t have known and it clearly wasn’t something she felt deeply offended over or concerned about. Just horrified, which is more than understandable.

“So, you’re avoiding the question.”

Frustration snaps him out of his momentary humor, and Killian passes that on to his replied, “Well, Doctor, if I’m avoiding the question, it should be obvious that I don’t want to answer it.”

“It’s better if you talk about it,” Henry pipes in, voice laced with concern. Killian turns betrayed eyes on the lad, but Henry merely rolls his eyes at that, a bad habit he picked up from Emma. The lack of respect for his captain is astounding.

Killian sighs. “I guessed before. I didn’t know for certain until.”

Until his mouth covered hers and he tasted the paradise that lay beyond her lips. The Elysian Fields could not compete. He scrapes a hand down his face, refusing to give into the memory in front of them. They’ve seen enough. He disciplines his expression into an impassive mask.

“Until I kissed her.”

“She’s good,” Victor says. For the sake of not getting his hands bloody and not losing his doctor, Killian feigns obliviousness to Victor’s tone and his wink while Victor says, “We’ll have to employ her skills for more daring heists when we get her back. I hear the Queen of Hearts has an impressive collection of gold.”

“And hearts. An impressive collection of hearts. I’m not putting mine at risk.”

Victor whistles, the upstart, sodding ass. Killian scrapes his hand down his face again and puts both hands on the oars, barking at Victor to pick up the pace.

He does it, but he whistles a jaunty tune the whole time. It’s one of Ursula's favorites, reminds him of Emma ( _Emmet_ ) and Ursula’s easy friendship, the way she’d laughed with Ursula, gone shopping with her - is that something she enjoys? - the way she’d gone out of her way to avoid Killian like he had the damn plague, her fear now understood and aching, aching in Killian’s chest. She didn’t trust him. How could she have?

But she’d gone out of her way to save him time and time again, too, and he’s selfish enough to hope that even a small part of that wasn’t out of nobility, but out of the same selfish desire that pushes his muscles harder on the oars.

By the time they reach the ship again, Killian’s humming the song as well, Henry speaking the lyrics under his breath. Hoisted back onto the ship, Smee is the first to approach him, Hawke following quickly behind.

“Did you find him?”

Killian opens his mouth, and says, “Set a course back to Misthaven. We have a queen’s palace to raid.”

“Again?” Hawke says. He curses wildly and throws his hands into the air. “Emmet isn’t even here and he’s leading us on a very, _not_ merry chase. I’m going to strangle him with my bare hands.”

“You won’t,” Henry disagrees.

Hawke mutters darkly under his breath, but he makes no noises to contradict Henry.

“It’ll be hell avoiding Misthaven's navy. Remember, before we left, we got word that -”

“Yes, I remember,” Killian grits out. “Alliances be damned. They’re not watching for pirates. They’re watching for thieves.”

“That’s kind of the same thing. Besides, aren’t they always watching for pirates? It _is_ general knowledge that we’re the bad guys,” Henry points out, hanging at Killian's elbow, and Killian hadn’t even noticed him move so close. Perhaps, he’s getting too used to having him there. Perhaps he’s become attached to someone other than himself. Perhaps he doesn’t much care that he has.

(He _cares_ , and it’s eating away at him.)

“I read something about the Evil Queen’s palace in Emmet’s - Emma’s book. I need to go reread it. It could help,” Henry says, feet skidding on the wood when he races off towards the cabins below.

“But, Captain, we -”

Wonders never cease to amaze. Smee hasn’t protested this much since Emma joined them. For that alone, Killian would scour the world for her.

It’s becoming easier, not fighting the desire to find her, like the battle was pointless even to begin with.

(He’d rather not acknowledge just how many people would agree.)

“Smee, set a course, and inform the crew,” Killian orders between his teeth.

“Inform the crew, of course. Of course,” Smee says.

Killian dismisses him with a nod of his head, and looks over his crew as some of them peer at him, gazes curious before Killian zones in on them. Emma’s influence has spread. Some hold his gaze for longer than a beat. Some even smile.

And Killian, for the life of him, wants to smile back.

(He cares, and it’s eating away at him, at the pieces he hates the most, but what will be left after that? He isn’t sure he’s ready to face the man underneath.)

(Pirate is safer.)

“Back to work,” he bellows to a particularly curious crew member. Even with a smile still hooked on his features, Ethan heeds him. He was always more perceptive than some of the others, and in Killian’s struggle to gain control of something, _anything_ , it helps to at least see some semblance of respect.

Killian stalks towards his own cabin and when he opens the door, he isn’t surprised to find Henry seated at his desk, the book open before him, flipping the pages furiously. In fact, he’d be surprised if Henry hadn’t encroached on his space to research. He’s astounded that Victor’s not standing at Henry’s elbow, guiding him with unhelpful remarks.

He clears his throat, announcing his presence which Henry seems to respect (he’s gaining a foothold, but clawing his way back to the top on his own ship is mind-boggling). He acknowledges Killian with a salute and an apologetic explanation, “Captain, sorry, but it’s quieter here. Everyone’s in the galley now because Colonel Pain broke out the celebratory cakes, you know, since Circe didn’t eat us. They voted Hawke as captain in case you didn’t come back. Hawke’s really happy you came back.”

That makes sense. He hadn’t cursed nearly enough at the news.

“I’m sure he is. Did you find anything in that book to help us along?”

“Not much. The story of Snow White and Prince Charming didn’t go into detail about the Evil Queen’s true abilities, besides the fireballs, so many fireballs, and you know, I don’t think she actually employed giants to eat people. I mean, maybe they do, but you never know? Circe didn’t eat us. Perhaps we don’t give some people enough credit.”

“Wise words,” Killian says.

He’s starting to get used to those pouring from Henry’s mouth.

“So, I was thinking, I’m going to start a new list,” Henry announces.

“Oh?” Killian prods.

“Emma - wow, weird, Emma - has a list of things you can only learn through suffering, but that’s too depressing so I’m thinking: Things You Can Only Learn from Witches.”

“From witches? Are we planning on visiting more than one?”

Henry frowns. “It’s still a work in progress. But we’ve learned a lot from Circe, like, sometimes girls pretend to be guys to hop a ride on a pirate ship. Or that the Captain kissed the girl pretending to be a guy. Or that we’re going to find Emma.”

Sometimes the better part of valor is letting things go. Sometimes, it’s just ignoring those things in favor of addressing them. Push them underneath until they don’t matter anymore.

(Or until they fester a way through, claw and scratch their way back to the top and leave a gaping hole behind.)

(Or until every single one of your crew members is gossiping like maids about it.)

“You learned that last one from Circe?” he asks, ignoring Henry’s first remarks.

Henry nods. “Yep. When she said that Emma protected us, it just made me think, she wouldn’t do that if she didn’t care. And if she cares, then she’ll want us to find her. You don’t leave the people you care about, not unless you know you’ll see them again.”

Killian nods, unsure what to say to that. There’s chasing after Emma, and then there’s hoping that she cares enough to want to be chased after. Beyond the superficial, he’s never been very good at this hope thing. He’ll let Henry have that honor.

“So, yeah, new list. Can I borrow some paper?”

Henry’s already reaching his hand for the stack in Killian’s desk drawer before he even nods his assent. Killian waves this aside, even knowing that these little moments are going to come back in Henry never paying his commands any mind. Killian leads himself to his bed, kicking off his boots and shirking his coat before climbing onto top of the sheets.

He starts drifting mere moments after he closes his eyes, drifting in and out of clear thought. Lists, he focuses in on that, considers the things you can only through suffering, considers how vastly different his would be to the one penned in her book. Melancholia, he’s indulging in it yet again, but he can’t help running through every moment he’s pushed down and under - they’ve festered and they’re clawing at his mind.

_Things You Can Only Learn Through Suffering_

  * what it’s like to be completely on your own
  * the way blood spills, the way it seeps onto your fingertips, glistening bright, flaking dark, the stain it leaves on your soul
  * scars, the ones that scab over and leave broken skin behind, the ones that leave a mark deeper, the ones that never heal
  * and the ones that do



He doesn’t realize when he drifts off into sleep until a clattering awakens him. Instinctively he goes for his sword, and instinctively he lets it drop from his hand, Henry’s snore hitting his ears moments after. He could sleep through a storm, is used to finding sleep even in the hardest of places, even in his own cabin with Henry snores so loud. Product of bouncing from ship to ship, finding sleep in the creaking of vessels so large that every sound echoed, the laughter, the shouting, the screams, and vessels so small that every whispered conversation was within earshot.

Killian shakes at the memory, tries to shake it off and latches onto the only thing he can, his hands reaching for the necklace. He almost feels Emma’s hands tangled in his on the warm metal, almost hears her own tinkling laughter, could close his eyes and sees hers glittering soft greens in his view.

He closes his eyes and drifts off again, and when he sleeps, he doesn’t dream, but he can almost imagine that he might hear her voice whispering the words, “Dream of me.”

-

He plots. He plans. He prepares.

And he finds himself utterly fucked when they finally dock at a port as close to the Evil Queen’s palace as they can, a small seaside town that looks as downtrodden as he feels, although the people he meets are as happy as can be. With the threat of the Evil Queen long since gone and only her palace remaining as a testament to her defeat, it’s hard to be anything but cheerful.

Killian sees it rising in the distance, too far a distance for him to feel comfortable. He hates land treks, only tolerated the last because he - he can admit this, to himself, at least - had Emma by his side. Gods, he curses the bloody lot of them, because he’s fucked, well and truly, and it doesn’t help matters that half his crew is wishing him farewell, eyeing Hawke like they’re just waiting for him to start barking orders.

Hawke shrugs uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes and steps up to Killian’s side, loudly whispering because he never quite learned how to _actually_ whisper, “Take me with you, Captain.”

“I do apologize, Hawke, but I need to leave a competent leader behind. You can gather the men if Midas’ guards or his allies should show up to take us in. I want no harm to come to the Jolly.” He perfects it as an afterthought, his pause slow but not too slow as to seem deliberate before he adds, “Or the crew.”

“Aye, aye, aye, Captain,” Hawke mutters petulantly. As an actual afterthought, Hawke adds, “Don’t get yourself killed. Or the lad. If you get him killed…”

Attachment. Sentimentality. It’s contagious, and Killian feels it as fiercely as the threat in Hawke's voice, doesn’t even bother to hide it when he sharpens his tone and says, “I’ll never forgive myself, and I’ll never seek yours or anyone else’s.”

He smiles then, as brightly as he can when they’re talking about a prospect that could haunt him, that could tear him to pieces and leave him nothing but carrion for Circe’s crows to pick at.

She would _love_ that.

Clapping a hand on Hawke’s back, he assures him, “But, not to worry, Henry’s in good hands - mine and his own. If anything, we’ll sacrifice Victor.”

Victor protests as Hawke nods vigorously and says, “Good choice.”

“Your cruelty knows no bounds,” Victor bemoans their insult.

“Pirate,” Killian reminds him drolly.

He turns around, expecting a smart remark from Henry, but the lad’s run off again, last minute preparations no doubt. He’s been tinkering with their plan ever since he woke up at Killian’s desk days ago, shouting out, “There are going to be traps. There are always traps.”

No doubt, he’s right, but there’s nothing for it. Henry’s words, not his, although Killian agrees wholeheartedly. Nothing for it. Unless they make that detour to the fairies that Henry insists they should make. It’s an awful idea, the fairies not to be trusted by a man like him, but Henry's making a valiant attempt to argue the point. Tenacious lad.

And right on cue, Henry clatters onto the deck, Emma’s book tucked under his arm and his fist closed around a map.

“Are you ready yet?” Henry asks, as if they haven’t been waiting for him.

Killian nods indulgently (affectionately, sentiment, sentiment, that bloody feeling assailing him at every turn.) He runs his fingers through his hair to push it up and out his face, and turns to Hawke. “Keep Smee from fretting too much.”

Hawke snorts. “I don’t know how that’s possible. It’s what he’s born for. That and poor attempts at negotiating and stealing.”

“Too true,” he agrees.

(Although, Smee is an excellent negotiator. Just in the face of Emma’s diplomacy, he falls far short.)

He nods his goodbye at Hawke and crooks a finger at Henry to follow, tugging Victor bodily when he looks around the ship with such a despondence as to make Killian roll his eyes.

If anyone’s to feel that way, let it be him. At least Killian wears it well on his dashing features. Brooding can be quite attractive after all. Tall, pale, and handsome, he has been called.

“I can walk,” Victor complains, so Killian releases him, lets him trip over his own feet before the doctor steadies himself, brushing off Henry’s brief concern with an excited grin that draws a surprised eyebrow from Killian.

Sober Victor is a strangely accepting man. Drunken Victor was much easier to read.

Drunken Victor was less entertaining however, Killian can grudgingly admit. His embarrassments could always draw a laugh, but they felt hollow in comparison to the one that rumbles through Killian's chest as Victor says, “So, the ghost of the Evil Queen, eh? Said to haunt the palace. I wonder if she’s attractive.”

“That’s awful,” Henry says.

“Which part?” Killian asks.

Ethan, Max, and Arnold await them, Killian’s carefully chosen backup for this particular journey since he had to leave Hawke behind. They nod at him before mounting their steeds, adjusting their swords on their hips, Ethan hooking his longbow over his back. He returns to watching Victor and Henry scramble onto their horse, grateful that Victor has proved himself a competent rider.

“I’m not sure. It’s all awful,” Henry answers when he’s situated behind Victor.

Killian rubs his own hand down the black coat of his stallion before climbing aboard. Gripping the reins, he turns the horse down the cobbled streets, knowing the others will follow, Henry and Victor remaining close, the trio tracking farther behind. They ride past the nearly destroyed executioner’s block, its crumbling stone interspersed with budding flowers. Daisies from the looks of it.

Henry’s eyes focus in on the executioner’s block, and the cheeriness he always seems to affect dissipates as his brows draw together in some haunting memory.

Quickly, Killian recaptures his attention, “Come now, Henry, maybe Victor will finally meet a woman to match him.”

“A ghost?” Henry asks in confusion.

“A madwoman,” Killian replies.

Victor makes a noise of protest and Killian flicks his head to the side to catch the considering look on Victor’s face as he lifts his chest in an accepting sigh and says, “That’s fair.”

Chuckling lightly, Killian picks up the pace, overtaking Victor and Henry, but staying close enough to hear the hum of their conversation, the rise and fall of their voices as Victor squeals in pain and Henry hisses,  
“Why’d I get stuck with _you_?”

Killian bites back a response - because he and Victor discussed what should happen if trouble strikes, and Killian’s lies aside, they both know who would left behind. Killian’s a better swordsman, and he’ll draw more time than Victor’s death would, and he always has the trio to cover him. Fortune willing, they’d all make it out with their lives intact.

As they enter the forest - the damnable forest that he hates so much more now that all he has is the company of his own yearning thoughts - Killian urges them forward, to cover as much distance as they can while it is still daylight. Foolhardy to approach a Witch’s lair, former or otherwise, in the dark.

He doesn’t miss the irony of the thought because they’re as much in the dark about what lingers there as the canopy of trees shrouding the forest floor, as much in the dark as Killian drifts into when he’s not focused on keeping his horse’s steps on the right path.

It encroaches when he least expects it, when he catches a snatch of Victor’s voice, “You think she’ll like to hear about it?” and Henry's response, muffled, but tone clearly excited, and it flares up, the ache of not being able to feel the same.

He doesn’t deserve to, and it had been daft to consider otherwise, to let Emma’s light shine on him and believe that it might keep the darkness at bay. Dafter to still carry a spark of that now, when its embers seemingly died the moment he realized she was gone, Henry reigniting them into a flicker of heat slowly burning its way through him, a flicker of hope still so small as to be blown out at a moment’s notice. Daft and dafter to speed his horse along, to close the distance between him and the Evil Queen’s palace, the distance between him and Emma. Even though she put that distance between them.

(Even if she doesn’t want it closed.)

(Daft and dafter.)

“Hurrying along, aren’t we?” Victor calls.

Killian throws his head back momentarily to look at him. Henry waves and says, “We could go faster? We should go faster. Can’t leave those miscreants behind for too long.”

Amused, Killian comments, “You do like that title, don’t you?”

“I have others,” Henry protests. Killian hears the shrug in Victor’s snort while Henry says, “But rogues seems too nice for some of them. We could get rid of some of them.”

“Trying to cut my crew down to size?” Killian asks.

“Just Ward," Henry confesses. He coughs. “Emmet - Emma would agree.”

They’ll need to work on Henry's guile, although his honesty is refreshing most times. Still, there’s nothing sly about the remark - and it’s grating, really, to be so revealed. It makes him want to hide behind bravado and talk, behind pretty smiles and the drink he has stashed within his coat.

“Need to get used to the name,” Henry says.

Killian sighs. Damn it all, it isn’t like he can make this any worse. Tilting his head, shrugging, a manufactured carelessness to the motion, he says, “Perhaps it would help you to know that the woman you met at Red’s tavern, the one who called herself Anna -”

“I knew it!” Henry cuts off Killian’s admission. “They looked so much alike. I _knew_ it.”

“She isn’t very good at the disguises, is she?” Killian remarks.

“But Emmet had a squarer face. More facial hair. Circe’s spell worked pretty well. Except for you. Because you kissed her,” Henry says.

There’s no moving past that, is there? A question he could ask of both Henry and himself. Victor eases the question aside with a coughed, “That’s going to wear on the captain. Look at his hackles rising, his jaw clenching.”

Killian relaxes his jaw with an effort, but his eyeroll can’t be helped and his scoff is loud enough to cover Henry’s laughter.

“I was thinking,” Henry says, which Killian has taken to mean that he’s done more than think, worked through a million different problems and come up with the most obvious solution. “We don’t go through the front door like Hawke suggested. There must be a secret way in. Every palace has it. In case they’re attacked, they need a way to get the royalty out.”

“You read that in Emma’s book?” Killian ventures.

“There’s a whole story about a princess who escapes with her grandmother when their family gets killed. The kitchen boy helps them. But they get separated, she loses her memory - I’ll tell you the story later. I asked Emma about it and she confirmed that it’s pretty common. Do you think...?”

Henry trails off, and as Victor finally eases the horse up beside Killian’s, he assesses the consternation on Henry’s face.

“Do you think she might’ve been a kitchen girl? Boy? Maybe she’d pretended to be one there too. She knew so much about royalty, maybe she grew up around them.”

“It’s possible,” Killian says because there’s weight to that idea.

She’d known so much, more than most. He’d been lucky enough to get his learning on a royal ship. Perhaps, she had experienced the same. It’s possible, but it feels more like wishful thinking (and when will he stop indulging in that, it’s growing tiresome) to think that their stories could be so similar, just because she’d had so much naval knowledge, so much knowledge of the ways of the world - but the naiveté of someone sheltered from it, too. Yes, there’s weight to Henry’s idea, but Killian would rather Henry bear it than himself. He has enough to carry on his shoulders, and he’s not Atlas, he can’t carry it alone.

“Oh, the palace is so close. Look the road is opening up!” Henry exclaims.

Killian nods, as he takes in the trees growing fewer and farther between, the forest no longer crowding them in, the road growing rockier, the terrain seeming to react to the taint of the area. That the Evil Queen would choose to make her home in such an inhospitable area is less than surprising, and more distastefully predictable. While they approach the road leading towards her former lair, the light fades around them, seemingly trying to shroud the black spires in darkness before they can make their way inside.

And yet, they made it before sundown. Miracles _do_ happen.

“We shouldn’t race in there,” Henry says, his voice contradicting his words, tinged with eagerness and said on a hasty breath.

“No, we shouldn’t. You all should make camp while I scout ahead and find that secret entrance,” Killian says.

“It won’t be that easy. It isn’t just _called_ a secret entrance,” Henry says.

Killian knew he shouldn’t have let Henry get away with so much. Closing his mouth around the desire to sigh, he replies, “I think I know what a secret is, lad. I’m quite capable of finding our way in while the five of you settle us.”

“You should take one of us with you. To watch after you,” Henry says.

“Worried about me?” Killian smirks.

“Yes,” Henry answers. “If you die, what will we do?”

There _is_ true worry in Henry’s strained tone, fading Killian’s smirk and his response to a soft, “Hawke was left behind for a reason, lad.”

This doesn’t calm Henry, only makes him stress, “What would we tell Emma?”

Killian relinquishes one of the reins to scratch the itch behind his ear. “Make up a lovely story of my great sacrifice. Make me sound heroic. She loves her heroes.”

“Heroines,” Henry corrects, a sharp lashing - Killian _should_ know this. “She doesn't really care that much for Hercules. But Ursula? Mulan? Lucy and Susan? She loves them.”

“I don’t care that much for Hercules either,” Killian replies. He dances around the implication of Henry’s mentioning Ursula’s name, dances around the way Emma called him heroic on the pages of her story.

“We’re almost there. Should we make camp here? Keep the horses a safe distance from that monstrosity?” Ethan questions in the following silence.

“I suppose it’s as good a place as any,” Killian says dryly, noting the barren and rocky ground with a pointed gaze.

Speed isn’t the smartest plan, but he has no desire to spend the night here. There’s a cold chill in the air, a haunting. Whatever jokes made, he doesn’t truly desire Victor meeting his ghostly possible paramour. There’s Victor's madness, and the kind that thinks that mass slaughter is the right response to hatred of a child. One’s an annoyance, the other is an abomination.

“Don’t be gone long. My body won’t take it,” Victor says as he slows his horse to a standstill, followed by the trio who slow and dismount, talking amongst themselves, whispers that are more telling than if he could hear their words.

They’re fearful. Killian doesn’t need that at his back.

To Victor, he says, “Keep a careful watch, mate.”

“Like I could get distracted here. There isn’t a pretty woman in sight.”

Victor turns away, as Henry rushes to dismount behind him. There’s a brief scuffle between the two, but eventually they’re both standing on solid ground. Henry looks as if he’s ready to follow Killian, so he denies him the opportunity and urges his horse onwards.

The steed feels nervous under him, not moving as quickly as before. He doesn’t push, just presses his fingers against his coat and hums a soothing tune. The palace looms over him, its spires reaching towards the sky like knives seeking to tear across the heavens.

It feels like a brush with memory, the kind he’s spent the past few days pushing aside. Old Gods can’t trek here, he knows, but it feels that way despite it. He wonders if he looks over his shoulder whether he would see those laughing eyes watching him. Stubborn as he is, he makes no move to do so. If he’s watching Killian, he's already seen more of Killian’s weakness than is good for him. He won’t add a wary eye on top of that.

Killian presses on, the road becoming less rocky as it winds closer to the castle. Up close it looks less fallen than it does from afar. It’s preserved, a corpse of her tyrannical reign. He laughs off the thought of her ghost stalking the halls, but the remains of her magic, that he cannot shake, especially when he passes through the opening gates. The air seems to test him, holding him and his horse suspended. He seizes up, feels stretched and shrunken all at once.

And then it eases and he pulls back in on himself.

“Damned magic,” he curses.

It’s kindness that has him dismounting and leaving the horse tied up at the gates because the air around him feels electrified, more tests to come, no doubt. He’d also rather not have a skittish beast beneath him, rather not have his neck broken in a frightened toss off the horse’s back.

(He’d like to be a hero in Emma’s eyes, sure, but he’d much rather be a living pirate than a dead hero.)

But, this kindness leaves him travelling on foot, taking measured steps towards the castle. He isn’t sure why he’s bothering. If he is to be hit with some leftover magic, there isn’t much he can do to prepare for that.

So, he loses the measured steps and circumvents the front door, following the sound of water. A sewer entrance would be too obvious, too much to hope for, but something around there, it would be the perfect place to hide a secret entrance, so close to where an assumed entrance would be that it wouldn’t be guessed.

He really hopes this isn’t one of those “push the correct stone, say the magic words, wave a bloody wand and the entrance will appear” deals. This is why he deals more in sea piracy than in land heists. There aren’t many places you can hide treasure on a ship and Killian knows every single one.

Here, he’s mostly at a loss besides his clever guesses - clever because as he approaches the sewer, he sees it, the crack in the stone almost imperceptible but there, and the vines clinging to it almost thick enough to conceal the handle.

Killian considers braving the interior of the castle himself and whatever might lurk inside on his own, but Henry would never forgive him if he didn’t get to see the inside of the Evil Queen’s lair. Still, Killian tests the handle himself, cracks open the door just to let the breeze in (and any number of dark things out.)

That done, Killian makes his way quickly back to his horse, hops back on and speeds his way towards camp. Victor and Henry shoot up as he arrives, and Ethan has an arrow nocked that he doesn’t loosen until Killian says, “Found the entrance. Are you ready, lad?”

“That was fast,” Victor says, suspicion in his slit eyes.

“Let me guess,” Killian drawls. In a mimic of Victor’s voice, he says, “How do we even know it’s you?”

Victor grumbles. “That’s how. Alright. Come on, Henry, time to meet my future bride.”

“If you keep saying that, it might come true,” Henry says as he scrambles up the horse behind Victor. His satchel hangs heavily off his shoulder, Emma’s book peeking out from between the ties.

Killian shakes his head.

“Come on, it’s this way.”

They follow beside him, and Henry says, “Ghost stories. There’s one in here where a town believed it was haunted so it became haunted. The author of this book, she met the ghost. Said she was kind.”

“A kind ghost?” Victor huffs a breath. “Now, that’s believable.”

The shades in the Underworld didn’t seem particularly unkind, save for Rumpelstiltskin’s - and Every’s. Killian has to force himself to relax his hold on the reins at the thought of the man, and instead let his thoughts drift to the shades.

A kind ghost, he can imagine it.

They reach the gates and Killian warns, “It tests you. I believe that’s what Circe meant about us being wholly mundane. I doubt any magic wielder could get through.”

“Perfect,” Victor says.

“Cool,” Henry follows with.

When he passes through this time, the uncomfortable sensation is lessened, but Henry and Victor take it hard. As he’s dismounting, Killian counts the beats after they pass through.

It only takes three for the doctor to complain, “You could’ve warned us.”

“I felt like I was being dissected,” Henry says.

“You’ve never _been_ dissected. It feels nothing like that. As someone who dissected...” Victor trails off in a huff, following Killian’s example and dropping off his horse. Henry helps himself down and ties off the horse beside Killian’s while Victor’s still huffing.

Killian should’ve taken Ethan instead. He would’ve whined less.

“This way,” Killian says tiredly.

They’re most of the way to the sewers when Victor says, “It feels…”

“Awful?” Henry supplies.

“I was going to say weird. But awful works, too,” Victor replies.

And yet, when they reach the cracked open doorway, and Victor helps him pull it all the way open, all that empties out of the passage is the stale air and dust.

He’s surprised at how clear the tunneled path is, more so that there are no immediate threats waiting to tear his face off. Subtle is not something he’s ever heard the Evil Queen described as. “Over the top,” one of the least colorful descriptions, usually far worse, akin to the curses Victor drops as Henry tugs him forward into the passage.

“Perhaps I should go first,” Killian says.

“After you,” Victor says, scowling. Henry looks ready to argue so Killian steps forward, waving a hand for them to stand back while he looks around.

“There’s always traps,” Henry reminds him.

He takes a few more steps, and several more, and he sighs, “I think that it’s safe. I suspect most of her safeguards were magical, which probably dissipated after her death. She had plenty of black guards to defend the castle from ordinary folk such as you and I, and she wouldn’t have wanted to die trying to escape her own castle. This passage is probably safe.”

“You got all that from the few steps you just took?” Victor asks.

“Didn’t you?” Killian snaps back. Victor huffs, so he smiles accommodatingly and says, “But just to be sure.”

He strides forward confidently and is all the way down the path before he can hear Henry dragging Victor behind him. The passage opens up when they reach the curve to a short flight of stairs leading to a locked door.

“This must be the part where it only opens for the Evil Queen,” Victor says.

“Or this is the part where I employ my handy lock picking skills,” Killian says, reaching into his coat to pull out the necessary wire.

It takes him a few minutes, but he has the door open and waves Victor forward into -

The apothecary.

Lined with shelves upon shelves of bottled potion, boxed...items and skulls (because there always have to be skulls in apothecaries.)

“This is too fucking easy,” Victor says.

Killian is inclined to agree.

Henry says, “There are always traps. Read the labels very carefully.”

“Wonderful!” Killian says.

Because there are few enough labels on the dusty bottles and boxes that he can read them all at a glance. Five bottles of grape rum (he hopes he isn’t reading that right) and Mercury’s Elixir, which Killian doesn’t even approach. He’d like to keep his head about him and not end up a raving lunatic.

“Oh, this is helpful,” Henry says.

Killian follows him around the shelves to where Henry leans over a pedestal, a book spread open before him. At first, Killian thinks it’s a magical tome which would not be helpful for their wholly mundane selves, but quickly he realizes that Henry’s found their key out of this room.

“This castle looks untouched,” Victor says. “Do you think her treasury is still full?”

Killian glances around the room again, and notes the door. The glowing door.

“Normally, I’d be all for raiding a queen’s treasury, but -”

“That door’s glowing,” Henry says for him.

“Yes, exactly. If you want to risk whatever spell is on that door, be my guest,” Killian says drily. “Or not. Doctors willing to take on life upon a pirate ship are hard to find.”

Victor throws his hands in the air, an easy smile on his face. “Alright, fine. Make me a pirate and then don’t let me steal, that’s fine.”

Killian ignores him, peering at the book again, as Henry moves away, towards the bookshelf beside him, “I’m going to check out these other books.”

He flips through the pages of the apothecary guidebook, sees potions for turning people into any number of creature, big and small, potions for forgetting, remembering, for seeking out the truth or perfecting a lie - and more poisons than necessary for any one person.

But the Queen wasn’t a subtle person, so he supposes she would have left a large collection of them behind. She probably never got much chance to use them when she was too busy tossing fireballs at villages and burning innocent people alive in their homes.

“Captain,” Henry exclaims.

Killian turns to Henry.

“Aye?”

“Do you have room in your satchel for some of these books? Mine is full,” Henry says.

He tilts his head to look at the bag hanging from Henry’s side. It’s stuffed to bulging.

“Sure, lad,” Killian says.

He hands over his empty one and allows Henry to go back to his collecting while he pores through the guidebook. He still hasn’t found the bottled sleeping curse, but that’s a mere afterthought to the possibility of bypassing Circe altogether and finding a tracking spell within.

“Captain?” Henry calls again.

“Yes?” Killian says, his tone less indulgent this time at the distraction.

There’s a long pause before Henry says, “I found the sleeping curse.”

“Well, that’s great lad,” Killian says, but he feels unsure of the truth to his statement.

Even less sure when Henry replies, “Not so much.”

Victor’s returned to Henry’s side and he shakes his head sadly as Killian leaves the guidebook behind and steps over to the shelf Henry’s standing over. Victor and Henry part to reveal a shattered bottle, torn through by an arrow. Even after all this time - the arrow is as dusty as everything else in here - the point of the arrow is still sharp.

“Snow White is said to be quite skilled with a bow,” Victor comments.

Killian nods.

“And would she leave the very curse that nearly destroyed her available for anyone to use? No, that would be foolish.”

Killian kicks at the shelf, dislodging the arrow to fall down at his feet. The wood splinters beneath his boot heel as he repeats quietly, “Bloody foolish.”

“On the bright side,” Victor says.

Killian shoots him a glare, but Victor doesn’t wilt, just trails his gaze to the side.

“On the bright side, Henry has found a way around it. The Evil Queen may not have been very good at labelling her potions, but she did label her books. _Spells, Potions, and Curses of Legend_. If any book could contain the way to create a sleeping curse, it’ll be that one.”

Killian nods.

That _is_ a bright side.

Calmed a bit, he says, “I’m going to finish looking through this book. Some of these potions and poisons could probably have come in handy, but after this long, I’m not willing to risk it. But perhaps there might be a tracking potion of some kind that can be recreated?”

“Smart,” Victor says.

Henry nods as he tosses more books into Killian’s satchel. Following his example, Killian returns to the book, flipping through potion after poison after serum after powdered horn of Apollo’s cattle.

It must be unheard of, tracking potions, because he gets to the end without seeing anything like it.

Circe’s offer of help when they had the possibility of giving her the actual sleeping curse _and_ her sworn promise was already dubious. Now that all they have is the possibility of her being able to recreate it from a _possible_ entry in that tome, they might be better off seeking out a hunter or a tracker than returning to her island.

“There _is_ a way to make the sleeping curse in here!” Henry exclaims just as Killian’s considering his options.

Well, that’s a decision made for him.

“Let’s go, then,” Killian says.

On a whim, just a whim or - he won’t be able to account for the ‘or’ for it could be divine intervention, and all gods are of the divine, even the ones that wish for his soul - _or_ worse, Killian grabs the last vial on the shelf closest to their exit. It’s cold to his touch, almost enough to leave an ice burn on his fingertips but he keeps it held in his hand as he pushes open the door.

It’s not foresight.

It’s nothing of the sort.

It’s pure bloody whim.

( _Or_.)

Whatever it is, when Victor steps through the doorway, the last one back into the tunneled path, the door behind them seals and clicks locked, and Killian has only a split second to toss the vial at the beast that comes rampaging towards them, all of its shadows and creeping darkness frozen by the potion.

“What in the hell was that?” Victor asks.

“Divine intervention,” Killian says.

Because what else could it be?

Certainly not whim - at least not a whim of his.

(If he turns around now, he knows he’ll see those eyes, laughing, laughing at him, if only in a vision conjured by his mind.)

-

They camp the night, but Killian has them back on the road long before dawn fully reaches the trees, and while Victor and Henry chatter and the trio follows behind them, Killian keeps himself focused on every step forward. On that and only that because the cover of the forest and the whisper of the wind is too much like darkness creeping in.

(They’d be dead if he hadn’t picked up the vial.)

(Would that have been a better option?)

(Surviving is all well and good when it’s your choice.)

(Or is survival even a choice, but instinct?)

(Or…)

Back at the Jolly, Killian quickly relieves Hawke of his duties - and gets many thanks for doing so, “for surviving, for not leaving me to this lot.” He gives the orders to take them back to Circe’s island, and retires to his cabin.

Henry’s waiting for him.

Well, not exactly waiting for him, but the lad is reading at his desk. At least, he has food set aside for Killian, which Killian immediately takes up, something to distract his mind while also giving Henry more space to pore over the books.

“This one?” Henry says as Killian tears at his slightly stale bread. He looks to where Henry is pointing, at the indecipherable...chicken scratch on the page.

“Do you know this language?” Henry asks.

“Not a clue,” Killian says, staring at it. There are patterns to the lines yes, but Killian is loath to call it a language. Loathe to call it anything but a headache.

“We can ask Circe. She’ll know,” Henry says.

Killian chews on his bread, not trying to give thought to Henry’s belief, and says, “What about this recipe for a sleeping curse...does this book have a tracking spell in it as well?”

“Nope,” Henry answers, but he doesn’t seem disappointed the way he should.

Instead, he grins and says, “But Circe will be happy to know that it’s pretty simple. I mean, we couldn’t accomplish it. But a goddess? She can do it.”

Bread gone, Killian has no distractions left from his mind and it quickly works over every number of thoughts, and he says, “Begs the question _why_ a goddess would need a sleeping curse.”

“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Henry says.

Killian lifts both brows. “Just as she had for turning us into pigs?”

“Piglets,” Henry corrects, something like amusement in his voice.

“You weren’t there lad, but it’s not as fun as you seem to think it is.”

“Right,” Henry says.

Killian gapes at him, but Henry just keeps reading and so he lifts his eyebrows to the cabin ceiling and sighs. He’ll have to take the disrespect as it comes; and Henry’s not like Emma, he isn’t very good at pretending that Killian intimidates him. Not that Killian has ever given him a reason to. Hell, he allowed Henry onto his ship because Emma won a dice game.

Because _Emma_ smiled at him and was so sincere in the asking.

Because...

(But maybe he intimidated Emma, and perhaps, it's his fault she left.)

Henry snaps him from the thought (but only momentarily, Killian knows) and says, “Anna wanted to get Ruby on our ship...well, Emma. Emmet. This is really confusing. I was just wondering...did she say anything that might hint? Anything?”

Killian thinks of her hands curled in his, her promise (it wasn’t a promise but it _felt_ like one) and says, “Not a word.”

“That would be too easy,” Henry says, unperturbed.

Too easy.

-

The seas are so calm on their way to Circe’s island that they get there in record time, and taking Ethan and Hawke with Henry and him this time (Victor opts to stay behind - “Just in case,” he says, but Killian sees the book that has captured his attention, something like the medicinal book from his world), they get to shore faster than Killian has time to wrap his head around what exactly he’s going to say before they’re at Circe’s door.

There’s a girl waiting by the door in welcome this time. Dressed in the same finery as Circe, in all green to complement the gold of her eyes, she smiles at them, a false one, the bright kind that says she’d much rather stab them with the knife she has hanging casually from the tie around her waist.

“She’s upstairs,” the girls says.

“Thanks,” Killian drawls.

“Milady,” he adds as an afterthought because she might have murder in her eyes, but that’s no reason for disrespect.

She blinks at him in surprise - and then Henry’s leading him up the stairs at too fast a pace for Killian to watch his back well enough.

If Circe had planned on her lady putting a knife in it, she doesn’t get the chance for Henry takes the stairs two at a time and Killian follows swiftly behind. The ascent takes a shorter time than before, and Henry’s already walking towards her, spell tome in hand by the time Killian reaches the top.

“You _did_ find it!” Circe calls out happily, rising from her chair to meet Henry.

“Wait, what?” Killian blurts.

She snatches the tome out of Henry’s hands, speaking quickly, “I’ve been missing this one for years. There are so many spells I thought lost, so many…”

Just as he’s about to ask a clearer question than ‘Wait, what?’ (But boiling down to the same thing) Circe tucks the book beneath her arm and says, “And the bottled curse?”

“We thought - the recipe is in there,” Henry says. “The bottled curse was destroyed, and we thought that this would suffice in exchange.”

“A deal is a deal, I suppose.”

She smiles.

Killian doesn’t.

“That other book,” she says, nodding to the one in Henry’s satchel, the one he had yet to pull out or even present to her. _Divine Intervention_. Perhaps it wasn’t Set that had him picking up that vial. Killian isn’t sure what’s worse. The demon you know, or the siren you don’t.

She drops the book underneath her arm and it disappears in a whiff of green smoke. She crooks a finger in invitation and Henry reaches into the satchel and hands over the book.

“This is exactly what you need to find Emma,” she announces.

This is news they should supposedly take gladly, her smile saying as much, but Killian scrapes together as much self-control as he can when he says, “You swore you would tell us where she is.”

Circe’s smile drops a bit, but it’s still there in her replied, “If you brought me the curse. You brought me the recipe for it, a map to creating it if you will, and so I’m giving you the same, a map to her.”

Whatever self-control he had moments before disappears in an angered and cursed, “A map we can’t bloody read, which you already know. And I suppose you won’t read it for us?”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she says, and the dig is too much for Killian not to start seeing red as well as feeling it. “But I don’t speak this language. Perhaps you can try someone else?”

“Who?”

Circe shrugs. Opening the book and flipping through its pages, she says lazily, “Oh, I don’t know. A wizard, a witch, a scholar of...is this chicken scratch?” She shrugs again and shuts the book. “I do know that this will help you find her, however.”

“And how do you know that?” Henry asks before Killian can.

“Hawks,” Circe says with another smile. “They’re great trackers.”

She bypasses Henry and holds out the book for Killian to take. He looks down at the cover truly for the first time, at the hawk emblazoned upon it, its eye staring at him in green.

“Thank you for your assistance. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” she says.

Killian takes her offering, not daring to do more than that when he’s feeling -

Her words take his attention again when she says, “Oh, and you’ve surprised me. I didn’t expect you to truly go through on your word. I’m sure -” She shakes her head, and trick of the light, her eyes go brown, older, wearier, _kinder_ , “Emma would be proud. Of your nobility.” She smiles at that, her eyes green with something soft and darkly humored.

Killian nods stiffly, and says, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

She answers him with a tilted head and lazy grin. “I would.”

He waves Henry over and says, “We’ll take our leave now.”

He gives Circe a final look in a language they can both read before descending after Henry, who doesn’t say a word, not until they’re back out on the sand, and Circe’s lady in waiting is twirling her knife in her hands behind them, the speed of the blade cutting through the air whistling in his ears.

Miserably, Henry says, “I told you. There’s always a trap.”

Killian can’t move himself to acknowledge Henry’s words, just lifts the book in his hands before him and stares at the gold filigree on the hawk’s wings, like he could find any value in gold when -

He squeezes his eyes shut.

(Always a bloody trap.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another delayed chapter, I really need to get better at this updating thing. I swear I'm trying! Anyways, I truly hope you enjoy this chapter (I'm rather nervous about it and the one that comes after oh boy) and special thanks to Sandy and Steph for always listening to me cry about my writing troubles, they're angels! Thank you again to all of you for reading, kudosing, following, and commenting on this fic, it means so much!

“Brooding will get you nowhere,” Victor says. “Trust me I know.”

“So what in the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Do you know how to read this?”

Killian tosses the book Victor’s way. He catches it with clumsy hands and only flips it open to the first page before he clicks his teeth, closing the book with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Well, no,” Victor answers.

“Then I’ll brood until I figure out who can. Now do you mind?”

Victor shakes his head negatively, “No I don’t mind, and that is one way to pass the time.” He inclines his head and suggests, “Another however…”

Killian feels his brain trying to throb its way out his ears. Good thing the doctor is here to help with that. Gritting his teeth, he prompts, “Is?”

Smee chooses that moment to speak, stepping away from his desk to say, “Not brooding. Being proactive, Captain. The crew is listless. They need some direction.” He nods his head significantly. “The _captain’s_ direction.”

“A good way to do that,” Hawke says, entering the cabin, adding his own gruff voice to the awful chorus. They certainly need the captain’s direction if all of them think that their inane chatter is worthy of taking up his time. “Is to take that ship that’s about fifteen knots off the starboard prow. It’s coming at us fast.”

Killian narrows his eyes at Hawke’s shifty glance. “How fast?”

“Fast enough to rival the Jolly,” Hawke says.

“Nothing rivals her,” Killian snaps.

“Are we talking about the ship or -”

Killian’s too swept up in the thought now to give Victor the lashing he deserves. Yes, taking the ship would do him a world of good, and the crew could use the exercise. It’s high time they went about that.

He pushes past Hawke and steps around Smee’s form, strides onto the deck and shouts, “Remember, men, as little bloodshed as possible.”

A cheer goes up and they go into preparations to board the ship and Killian can see now that it _is_ moving fast. His jaw twitches. Nothing rivals the Jolly.

Especially not a pompous, ostentatious, and bloody tasteless ship as that. It's painted gold all over, and even Midas would complain about the poor taste.

And there’s a llama on the prow. At least a woman would make some sense, as sailors on _these_ waters are surprisingly limited in their imaginations when it comes to ship decorating, some kind of female creature is usually what it falls to. A llama, however? A little too imaginative for Killian’s tastes.

“Who are these people?” he asks aloud.

“That’s -” Henry, appearing at his side out of nowhere, which is just par for the course it seems. “That’s the Inca Emperor’s ship. Kuzco. ”

“He’s in the book?” Killian surmises.

“Right after El-Dorado,” Henry confirms.

Killian didn’t get that far in his reading, but good on Henry for going that extra mile.

Henry’s eyes go wide as his brows go together, and he says, “We’re really boarding them?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Is there any reason we shouldn’t? We _are_ pirates,” Killian replies.

“I know but we’ve never - We’re really boarding them.” Henry stares off in awe and only when Killian places a hand on his shoulder does he straighten and say, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay by Victor’s side,” Killian says. “He should be lingering near my quarters.”

“That’s not -”

Killian cuts off his protest before the sentence can fully form, clapping him on the shoulder as he says, ““Until I teach you how to properly swing a sword that _is_ what you’ll be doing.”

“Fine.”

The reply is said too simply, the concession too willingly given, but Killian doesn’t have a chance to shake compliance into Henry when the helmsman turns the Jolly to come up alongside the royal ship, and the men jump into quick action.

He shouts a few orders here and there, but they’ve done this enough times, even before Killian was the one ordering them to do so, that they move without thinking, pure muscle memory taking the boarding ramps onto the Incan ship before they can even think to mount a defensive, it seems.

Killian narrows his eyes as he peers across the ship to find only a few guardsmen lining up to knock the ramps off. Not nearly enough for a ship so large, and even those look -

“Hold off!”

His men stop their crossing, staring at him mystified, but he stares back at the guardsmen, at the green of their brown skin, the unmistakable sheen that even at this distance he recognizes as disease, and the ship that was moving so fast as to rival the Jolly (preposterous) groans at the speed it’s keeping.

Conscience takes a hold of him, makes him sick at himself, and this is not the good he hoped this would do him.

Here’s a considering thought, sudden as a storm on the sea, if this is the good that this is supposed to be doing them, then he wants better. He wants to be better, the feeling comes to him again, as strong as the wash of the sea rocking their ships and he’s not a blind man. He gives into it, takes the chance. Gambling has always been one of his vices and what is this if not the greatest gamble of all - moving forward with no clear vision of the future, only possibility.

(Mere possibilities, and a vision, Emma’s soft smile directed at him.)

Killian waves his men back towards their ship only to climb onto one of the ramps and shout, “Is there disease aboard your ship?”

“No, we just look like this naturally!” an impossibly annoyed voice calls back.

Killian can’t see the speaker, and it’s probably stupid of him to approach given how badly this can go. Taking a ship is one danger, but a ship loaded with disease and possibly worse, now that he’s considering it in every step, could be disease, could be a curse, could be a witch, wizard, demon or god waiting aboard to take his life - well, if he’s indulging in fantasy, could be Emma waiting just below, ready to jump into his open arms.

Or Victor's, if he's indulging in fantasy, why not go the whole way down the rabbit hole?

“Naturally,” Killian agrees with the hidden speaker. “And naturally, you’ll forgive me if I opt to take another ship instead. Even a vessel as _rich_ as yours lacks the necessary appeal for the risk of disease.”

“Yes, leave us to die. So much for what they say about the kindness of pirates!” the voice calls back.

Killian raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What do they say about the kindness of pirates?”

“Nothing! Nothing is what they say!” the voice says, tone shrill, words dying out in a cough so emphatic as to be completely fabricated.

Though, as Killian steps closer to the edge and finally sees the speaker, seated on his throne of gold and rubies, he can see the truth in the sound. It’s a bit hard not to cough out a lung when you’re green at the gills and wearing a crown heavy enough to tire out the neck of a giant. And this man - _boy_ , even - is no giant, lanky and without a hint of muscle tone.

“I take it you’re the Emperor,” he says, taking another step towards the edge when one of the guards rises from the ground to try and push at the ramp Killian’s standing on. He doesn't even have to lift his sword to knock the guard away, but he does so anyway, backing him away with the hilt so as to not touch him. He doubts the green skin coloring would fare much better on his pale skin.

“I take it you’re the Emperor,” Kuzco mocks snappishly.

Killian plops down on the ramp - he’s risking his life anyway, he might as well be comfortable about it - and leans over to study the ridiculously garmented emperor. He could pluck the crown from his head and make off into the horizon with just that and it’d be enough gold to last his crew at least a month, which would go far beyond the current record of Midas’ gold.

“Hey, eyes off the crown,” Kuzco says and manages enough strength to narrow his dark eyes.

“I only have eyes for your majesty,” Killian says.

He grins.

“Are you - eyes off _me_ ,” Kuzco replies.

“How about this? I’ll keep my eyes to myself and I’ll even send my doctor over to take a look at you and your crew,” Killian says. “I imagine that’s why you’re risking your ship going at such a speed, the sickness is getting worse and you won’t be able to hold off for much longer without reaching shore. Not only is my doctor quite talented, but he’s the best you’ll get in these waters without risking Circe’s dubious help.”

“Why would you help us?”

Killian gives the Emperor another onceover, this one lingering. He could pluck the crown from his head, and pirate that he is, the idea is tempting. Pirate that he is...

“Ever heard of the kindness of pirates?” Killian asks.

Kuzco grimaces. “Eyes off the crown.”

Killian winks.

He tries to hoist himself back up the ramp but the weight of footsteps behind him make him jump down onto the deck of Kuzco’s ship instead and he turns to Victor as he scurries across the plank, eyes raised heavenwards and mouth moving over words that Killian reads easily enough.

Hears it, too, when Victor is close enough that his whispered, “Don’t fall and drown and die,” isn’t so much of a whisper.

“Why did you cross?” Killian asks.

He peers across the ramp and notes with satisfaction Henry still on the other side. Victor nods, confirming his growing suspicion, and says, “It was either I came, or Henry would. He noticed the sick. Thought we could help.”

“Of course he did.”

“He said something about a pirate code of honor,” Victor laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what stories Emma’s been filling his head with.”

“I do. They’re all in that damn book.”

“Not all of them,” Victor says.

Anchors drop with less weight than that remark and it’s a sharp reminder of a story Emma never got the chance to pen in her book. One that only her fingers traced and he never gave true voice to. He thinks of being better, and feels _worse_ , even as Kuzco’s complains, “Yes, have a nice chat while we lay here. Dying. It’s fine. Just fine.”

Killian grunts, so Victor gets to it, moving past him to where the emperor sits on his throne and it amazes him as it did the first time he watched Victor administer healing, how smoothly he goes from a man that Killian would not want near his dying body to a competent physician.

It amazes him, and it annoys the emperor to no end. Killian’s surprised when he doesn’t just order his guards to attack Victor - and surprised that they don’t bother to offer given the way Kuzco whines and moans and slaps at Victor’s hands, slipping and sliding as much out of reach as he can while keeping his crown atop his head and his throne beneath his bottom.

Eventually Victor moves to the guards and after looking them over - with far less complaints from their end than Kuzco’s still whining form - he surmises, “It’s just a pox, probably picked up from some infected water. I can administer some medicine to get rid of the virus and I have some ointment to facilitate the healing of the skin. You’ll be back to a natural tone in no time.”

“Praise the gods - and praise me, I thought I was cursed! Cursed with this blemish on my face. My beautiful, beautiful face,” Kuzco says.

Victor grumbles and says, “Let me go grab those things.”

Killian nods and stands up from where he sat himself down on the plank. He allows Victor to pass, keeping his eye on the emperor and his fallen guardsmen. The ship keeps groaning underneath him so he tells Victor, “Tell them to slow the ship and send over some of the men to help me loosen these sails.”

Victor waves his compliance and only moments after he curses his way to the other side, several of his crew walk over with much less trepidation to help Killian slow Kuzco's ship.

The emperor is quiet as he does this, and Killian’s used to trusting his instincts, especially when he’s set himself to helping a royal that he planned to rob, which by no means he plans on thinking over, not about Henry and the “pirate code of honor,” the sickness in the pit of his stomach the moment he saw them, how much better he feels _helping_ them than he’s ever felt stealing; fleeting pleasure of gold in his fingertips simply doesn’t compare to the relief on the guards and the sailors faces as his men go about taking a hold of the ship.

Thinking about this is not something he can afford to do, however. He focuses on his instincts, the ones screaming that the emperor doesn’t trust Killian as far as he can throw him - and with those weak arms, he can barely push Killian away let alone hurl him into the sea.

The man that steps onto the deck on the other hand.

The man that _wobbles_ onto the deck can probably toss Killian much farther than he’d like, and Killian knows he’s right to be concerned at the man’s size. It could pose a distinct problem should Victor’s healing do the wonders it has before.

Victor sets to administering his aid, starting with the still complaining emperor and going from one guardsmen and sailor, down the line to the giant himself.

But of course as much as forethought as Killian gives to watching the man, it’s Epimetheus that sends his godly blessings him, for Henry (of course, his compliance was the kind that would come back to bite him in the ass) follows right after Victor over the ramp. It’s afterthought that has Killian moving from his post but he’s too slow. When the man wobbles forward, it’s Henry that he catches, book and all, and it’s the emperor that sees Killian’s eyebrows shoot up in warning and shouts, “Hah! Leverage! Hold him, Pacha!”

Pacha, for his part, rolls his eyes - or his eyes loll into the back of his head. A little of both perhaps.

“Now heal me, quick!” Kuzco says.

“You do realize that I have several men to your still very sick crew and also you can barely hold your head up and if you don't release Henry, you won’t need to.”

The threat tastes bitter.

“Pacha!” Kuzco says.

Pacha sways with Henry in his grip, but he doesn’t release him even as Killian steps towards the emperor. The guardsmen move towards him, but his crew is there at the ready, swords raised.

Killian shoves forward to try to grab at Henry and while Pacha blinks at him warily, he doesn’t move to release Henry, who looks far less concerned than he should, his eyes darting to the book in his hands.

“How dare you?” Kuzco says at the same time that Killian curses - that damn bird - and says, “How dare _you_?”

Same words. Different inflections.

At least he’d like to imagine he doesn’t sound as petulant as Kuzco. Imagination is a funny, wild thing. He imagines that he doesn’t sound like a right royal ass but as he chances a glance at Henry, he sees the cringe in his gaze.

He imagines that as he stares at Pacha and drops his raised sword down in momentary surrender that this might end _well_.

“Captain, it’s fine! He’s just leaning all his weight on me.”

Killian looks up at Pacha who echoes his words when he says, “That’s fine?”

“They might be able to help us,” Henry argues without missing a beat.

“Help us? _Really_?” Victor exclaims.

“I don’t know but we could always ask,” Henry says.

Killian throws his head back in disbelief and then shrugs, because is it really that hard to believe that Henry might think asking a favor of an emperor whose ship they’ve boarded is a good idea when Henry had fallen for a princess who secured their escape from her castle because she fancied him?

What is hard is finding the words to ask it, so he leaves it to the lad instead, nodding his head in approval.

“My book. Is it a language you’ve seen before?” Henry says, raising it towards Pacha.

The man looks at Killian, baffled, but Killian can’t give him more of an explanation than another shrug and a lifted brow, so Pacha asks, “Are you seriously asking us for a favor while we’re holding you hostage?”

“Yes,” Henry answers.

Kuzco snorts. “Well, that makes a load of sense, doesn’t it, Pacha? A perfectly reasonable response, and I suppose it would be perfectly reasonable for me to take that book from your hands and offer to decipher it for you and then we’ll both walk away from this friends, buddies, pals for life.”

“Kuzco,” the man says, and then to the Emperor’s jaw-dropping, wide-eyed horror, he releases Henry’s shoulders and plucks the book out of Henry’s hands. “You took all those language classes. Perhaps you can read it?”

“Perhaps I don’t want to.”

“Perhaps they’ll leave us be, your head intact, if we help them with this and we can go back on our journey and I can stop trying not to be seasick all over the deck?”

“Don’t you throw up on my ship, Pacha!” Kuzco orders.

With a strength that Killian didn’t think he still possessed considering his complexion and with the speed of a man who adores his ship, he hops off his throne, trotting over to snatch the book out of Pacha’s hands.

“So you’ll help us?” Henry asks eagerly.

Kuzco tears the book open and stares at the pages. “I don’t _read_ chicken scratch. I can’t help you,” he says, pushing the book back into Pacha’s hands, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away.

Pacha, he nods his head, looking at the back of Kuzco’s knowingly until finally the emperor turns back around in a huff and throws his hands up in the air, “Fine. _Fine_. I _can’t_ read it, but this witch might be able to help. She tried to kill me. Maybe she’ll be successful in killing you.”

“Thanks, mate.” He tips his head dramatically and corrects himself ever so slowly, “I mean, Your Highness.”

The furious horror doesn’t leave the emperor’s expression, only deepens as Killian’s eyes slowly lead up to the crown on his head.

“Pirates,” the emperor huffs, throwing his hands up in the air, and the last of his strength out of his body. Killian’s there to catch him before he falls and there to suffer as Kuzco places the back of his hand on his forehead and says, “Why me?”

“The very question I’m asking myself right now. You’re not as light as you look,” Killian huffs.

“Take me to my throne,” Kuzco says. “Heal me, and then I’ll tell you about the witch.”

Killian doesn’t so much as take him as he drags him to his throne and lays him down on it with an effort that leaves him feeling sticky beneath his leathers. Somehow, the crown remains glued to Kuzco’s head. His head must have grown attached.

Pacha limps towards them as Killian steps back and says, “Yzma isn’t going to like you sending pirates - _people_ her way. She might kill them, Kuzco.”

“Pacha!” He makes a noise and says, “That’s exactly what I want.”

“Is that the thanks we get?” Victor asks.

“It’s what you deserve, attacking my ship! My beautiful ship!”

“What we’ve done can barely be construed as an attack. Perhaps, we should’ve put more effort in.”

Killian clenches his hand in consideration.

“Perhaps we should’ve put more effort in,” Kuzco mimics.

As Kuzco’s mimicked words bounce off his skull at a pitch that gives him a headache, Killian stares down at his clenched hand and considers.

Perhaps they _should’ve_ put more effort in.

Perhaps they should strive for better.

He raises his eyes back to the emperor, grinning, and says, “So, how do we find this witch?”

-

Whatever you can see about frail old witches, their bony arms aren’t as light as they look. Killian makes this rather important discovery when Yzma grabs him round the arm and spins him to face her.

At least he assumes its Yzma. Kuzco called her “the Ancient Evil” and Pacha called her “terrifying old woman.” This pale-purple skinned woman looks like a cross between the two, especially when her wide yellow eyes catch sight of Victor and widen even more.

Her smile _is_ terrifying.

But Killian likes to believe he’s made of sturdier material than to be frightened of old hags. Wary of them, yes, especially when they make their homes on an island at the edges of their empire. Not by choice, of course, but because they tried to assassinate their emperor and ended up being transformed by their own evil spell into a squirrel until, _apparently,_ the spell wore off or they found the cure or -

Killian admittedly gave up on this story halfway through, too distracted by other thoughts of other thrones of gold. Rooms of it. Castle walls solidified by it.

“We have a request,” Killian announces, because Yzma seems more interested in testing the weight of his arm than actually addressing him.

Kuzco didn’t mention cannibalism, but she doesn’t look above it, and neither was the prince above not mentioning it and, coincidentally, neither is Killian above suspecting it.

Her eyes lock with his and she says, high and sickly sweet, “From me?” The tone drops almost immediately once she drops Killian’s arm, a wave of her hand in dismissal as she says, “From _me_. Fool, who do you take me for?”

Killian grins widely. “Someone helpful.”

She curses at that, albeit one he doesn’t quite understand. Killian really should invest more time into his multilingual studies - he’ll need them if things keep going the way they are.

And going - she’s walking away.

“Bloody hell,” Killian curses, too.

“Not many people know where I’ve landed since that repugnant child exiled me here.”

“Not many?”

She swivels her head around, praying mantis style, and says, “What does a pirate want with me?”

“A simple translation,” Killian says, straight to the point.

“Translation? I’m not a linguist,” she scoffs.

“But you _are_ a witch,” Killian remarks. When she just looks at him, he gives in and resorts to desperation. “So perhaps you know of arcane texts in other languages. This book is supposed to detail a spell of great import. If you can translate it, we would be in your debt.”

“I don’t need a pirate in my -”

She closes her mouth, thinking better of it, and says, “Let’s see this book.”

Killian holds tight to it as she curls her bony fingers around the spine. She looks...hungry.

“This is not a text I’ve ever seen,” she says succinctly. Without even opening the book, she announces, “I can’t read it.”

She sighs as if this is the hardest thing she’s ever had to say.

“You can’t or won’t?” Killian asks.

“Both, both. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. My former help placed me under a spell. I can’t perform any magic. I’m a useless old woman,” she bemoans.

She looks at him with saddened eyes and Killian doesn’t exactly feel pity, his distrust too deep, but he does feel disappointment deep enough to rival her own probably. She couldn’t murder the emperor and take over his kingdom, Killian can’t find Emma, and this is all -

The comparison is awful.

This is all a bloody mess.

“So this trip was a waste of my time,” Killian curses.

Yzma’s look goes hungry again. “But not mine,” she says, drawing close enough that Killian can see the crazy dancing in her eyes. “I’m taking you under my employment and charging you with finding the cure for my bespellment.”

Killian lifts an eyebrow. “Thanks but I prefer self-employment. I’m an entrepreneur, forging my own path.”

“But where will that path lead? You can’t even find someone to read a book for you,” she snorts.

It smarts enough that Killian’s feigned humor dissolves under her wicked smile.

Still, he doesn’t turn to leave back up the forest path. Instead he draws his mouth up in a smile of his own and says bitterly, “Exile suits you.”

She cackles at that, an unearthly sound. “Ancient evil” is sounding more and more appropriate.

“Pirates always go for the low blows, as lowly as they are -” she starts.

Killian doesn’t give her time to continue. He turns around and starts down the forest path. She throws curses after him, but given what Kuzco told him about her, he’s surprised she doesn’t throw blades after him as well.

Perhaps she’s mellowed during her exile. Or, more likely, she’s just run out of knives. Not many people have found her island, according to her; perhaps fewer have left it. Circe and she must be good friends, or earnest competitors.

The walk to his ship is short as is his temper when he meets Victor’s pointed remark of, “So she didn’t help. Unsurprisingly.”

“Yes, unsurprisingly,” Killian snaps. Frustrated, he continues, “I must be blind because I seem to be missing something here. If this is so unsurprising to you, why didn’t you turn my path?”

“Because I had hope?”

“That’s a question,” Killian says.

“Because I wanted it to be helpful.”

Killian jerks his head back towards the island fading in the distance. “Well, if I’d indentured myself to her, gotten rid of the spell binding her powers, she would’ve been able to help.”

“And you…?” Victor prompts.

“Didn’t even consider it, actually. So I suppose I have hope, too.”

“That you won’t have to resort to regicidal witches to find Emma?”

“Aye,” Killian says cheerily.

It’s not exactly true cheer, but it _is_ better than he should feel, given the circumstances. But then again, allowing himself to be used to help a psychotic murderess gain her freedom, would that be better? Perhaps he’d have Emma - but perhaps, she wouldn’t have him.

(His hope must still be there; a spark still holding onto life. It’s a better reason to hold on than he’s had since -)

He turns to Henry, who has kept a strange silence, and asks, “Well then, lad, who’s next?”

“Speaking of being blind” - Killian nods because Henry may have been silent, but he _was_ listening - “There’s the Blind Witch. She’s one of many; I think blindness is just a thing for witches; like peg legs and hooks are for pirates - or leather coats.”

Killian feels Victor’s look. Wisely, Victor doesn’t say a thing.

“There are three in Emma’s book alone,” Henry says. With a slight frown he says, “Though there’s only one alive. But, she’s the nicest one, apparently, doesn’t even eat children,” Henry points out excitedly.

Killian feels better at that.

-

“Are witches just perpetually hungry for men?” Victor asks, keeping up a much faster pace than Killian would think he could considering the years of drink.

He feels a stitch in his own side as he replies, “Maybe the magic makes them crave it. Or perhaps we just have poor luck.”

“Poor luck? This is the _worst_ luck.”

Killian can think of worse luck than this. He only has to close his eyes and the memories flit by, one after another.

He doesn’t close his eyes.

He needs to see where he’s going as they fly through the underbrush with the witch’s hellhounds hot on their heels. Who knew a simple request would turn into an invitation for their own death?

(He did. He knew. He doesn’t know why he bothered to get his hopes up.)

(He _knows_.)

“Why does no one want to give us a tracking spell? Or translate this book for us?” Victor asks.

“Because we keep fucking asking,” Hawke shouts.

Hawke lets another bolt of his bow fly. Killian hears a whimper, but the growl that follows is worrisome. Everything about this situation is cause for concern, but he can only consider the one at the moment.

“Diplomacy always wins out in the end,” Victor calls out.

“Yeah, when you’re a woman dressed up like a man!” Hawke argues.

“Are you ever going to get over that?” Victor scoffs.

Killian understands the feeling.

“I knew she would fuck things up. Ah, those fucking hounds are going to catch up to us any moment now, and where’s that woman now to talk them out of ripping us apart?”

Victor muses on this, half wheezing out, “Probably lounging around and talking some other pirates out of their livelihood.”

“Bloody hell, will you both shut up?” Killian shouts.

A howl answers him, long and loud.

“She better be worth this,” Hawke says.

Killian hears another bolt make land, a whimper followed by a growl loud enough to shake the ground.

Even after the hellhound ends up slobbering all over his face, its anger dispelled by one too many bolts to the head, Killian doesn’t have to give thought to his response.

It’s worth it, and Hawke (irritably) agrees.

The hound, less hellish now, slumps down beside Killian’s equally slumped form and starts to moan. Killian peers at it and his eyes catch sight of the dint in the collar on its neck, the half tear in it. Hawke’s bolts may not have mellowed it after all. This seems likelier.

The hound is all heavy heat, heat enough to nearly burn Killian’s face when he licks at him, but the collar flakes ice and Killian gets it, the kind of anger that pain can induce.

He understands the whimper in the hound’s throat.

He doesn’t consider the motion. He reaches over and grabs Hawke’s waist, drawing the man closer. Slipping the dagger free from Hawke’s scabbard, Killian ignores the man’s protests and slides it towards the tear in the leather. The beast wilts away and with his free hand, Killian strokes his head soothingly.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. The hound whimpers, and Killian repeats it, “It’ll be fine.”

He tries to infuse his voice with good humor, finds it isn’t hard. A dog’s a dog, and he’s always rather liked them. It’s been so long since the he’s looked at a dog and felt that warmth he did when he was a boy. A dog...it was a dream he had once.

Killian grins and says, “Trust me, which I know is hard to do considering the fact that Hawke shot about thirty bolts to your head. But can you blame us? Truly?” The hound seemingly considers this as it considers the blade in Killian’s hand, and after a moment the hound dips his head a little. There’s less of a whimper to the hound’s breaths.

“Aye, there’s a good pup, just let me -”

The beast calms enough that Killian can slip the knife underneath the collar. It takes some working. The leather is thick. The magic that ties it to the hound’s neck and burns the fury into its veins thrums from the hilt of the knife all the way down to Killian’s fingers, burning him with icy cold, but he doesn’t give up. He can’t. He cuts, careful to draw the knife away from the hound’s head and when his fingers are so cold he can barely feel them, the collar finally gives way, flakes of ice showering to the ground and leaving the collar a mundane object once more.

One with a brand.

“Good boy,” Killian remarks.

Having joined them when they reached the shore, Henry stands over Killian now. He bends down and picks up the fallen collar. While Killian’s stretching life back into his fingertips, Henry ‘aha’s and says, “That’s the mark of the Swamp Witch. She’s a necromancer.”

“Lives in a swamp and keeps company with the dead? Sounds like a lovely lass.”

“Yep,” Henry agrees.

They dip into silence.

Sighing, Killian doesn’t even give Henry a chance to ask, just says, “You’re not leaving the ship when we get there.”

“Fine,” Henry says. He looks inclined to argue, and he probably will during the interim going there, but Killian doesn’t fear this inevitability.

His hand aches but still he scratches beneath the chin of the hound with it, murmuring, “Good boy.”

The hound snorts like it’s repeating the words back to Killian.

A strange thought, and yet...fitting.

-

The good feeling doesn’t last.

He draws into himself once their plans are set to travel to the Swamp Witch’s domain. The crew takes to it so easily that it makes him feel uneven, the only one who can’t seem find contentment in this course of action.

The only contentment he can find is in the flask at his side, in the drink numbing his mind, slowing his racing heart, racing, racing after Emma and growing only farther behind the longer they spend looking for her. It’s been near three weeks already, their visit to Yzma having taken a week and half’s journey, the Blind Witch half a week.  And Circe’s before that, and the Underworld.

Adventures never seemed this long before.

He drinks some more, the rum going down easier than he swallows down all the possible realities where he races after Emma and never catches up.

“You’ve lost your swagger, Captain,” Henry says.

Killian tips his flask up to his mouth only to find it just as empty as it was minutes before. Pity. He slips it back into his jacket and looks to Henry, whose hands have pressed the book open to a picture.

That bloody book. He can’t remember the last time Henry put it down.

Probably the last time Killian picked it up with considering fingers only to toss it the moment he read her words again, _Things I’ve Learned through Suffering_.

So, say, two hours ago, give or take.

“That tends to happen when you’ve imbibed more than your body can handle,” Killian explains with a grin that he manages to hold for only seconds before it slips.

Henry sighs. He’s truly taken on Emma’s mantle well. As annoyed at Killian as she ever was.

The drink isn’t numbing his thoughts as much as it should.

“You’re slacking.”

“I’m tired, Henry. But this isn’t slacking. This is…”

“Moping?”

It’s a double attack. Killian should have expected it, but Victor has been so good this past week about not hitting Killian where it hurts. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. This scheming really should come as no surprise.

“Between the two of you, I’m never going to enjoy my rum in peace,” Killian says.

He could’ve framed it as a question, but there’s no use in the rhetorical even. This is fact. He’s never going to find peace with Henry and Victor staring him down with judgmental eyes, but he wasn’t going to find peace in the bottle of rum anyway, merely a dreamless sleep.

He needs that because this hopelessness taking hold of him is all too familiar. He feels a storm brewing beneath the surface, one he’s not ready to face, one he’s never been ready to face.

“Think of this as your trials, like Hercules,” Henry says.

Killian freezes at that and thinks of Emma saying much the same about his travels in Amazonia. Teasing him.

This feels more like a taunt.

“Emma doesn’t like Hercules,” Killian repeats Henry’s own words.

It isn’t for the sake of argument, but for the sake of himself. He thought his trials over. Killian’s always been an excellent liar, but he didn’t think he was so adept at lying to himself.

There’s a comment here about learning something new every day, but Killian feels even more ignorant with this revelation. What else has he lied to himself about?

(The look in Emma’s eyes when he kissed her, perhaps.)

“Yeah, but she likes you,” Henry says.

Killian can only smile dumbly at that.

(Perhaps not, then.)

“Emma has good taste,” Victor admits, and it doesn’t even sound begrudging.

Killian feels his heart lift a little at Victor’s tone, enough to reply jauntily enough, “Is this a confession, Victor? I’ll try to be as gentle about this as I can, but I can say that the sun’s set on any hope for you and I.”

“And it rose with Emma’s arrival, yeah, yeah. Save the romance for someone else,” Victor says.

“As you’ve saved every woman you’ve met from romance with your pitiful advances,” Killian says.

Victor’s expression darkens and he says sourly, “Chronic drunks don’t often endear themselves to pretty women.”

“A pointed remark,” Killian acknowledges.

“This is really uncomfortable,” Henry cuts in.

Killian looks to him, the red on his cheeks and wonders for a second if he’s thinking of Cassandra. It’s not something that Killian would particularly like to think about at the moment, about how willing the young teen was to come with them because she’d fallen for Henry in less than a week’s time. He wants to think that young women are naive and love too easily and all these ignorant, faintly misogynistic thoughts, but he’s never been that sort of man, to think women weak and love and naiveté a failing of theirs.

If it’s to a failing of anyone’s, it’d be his.

He doesn’t want to think about her willingness because it makes him think of Emma’s, of how she’d joined him after moments of knowing him, so eager to run away that she’d run straight to him.

So eager to run away that she’d left him in the dead of night.

How he wants to stop treading these damnable thoughts over and over, comparing everything to the moments he spent with her because he’s realizing that a month’s worth of moments are not nearly enough, that he could retread them all in a single day and he’ll never be satisfied with only those.

Killian looks to Henry and wonders if less than a week’s time was too short a time for him as well.

“It is,” Killian agrees. He shrugs into a standing position. He nods his head and feels his brows rise all of their own volition as he says, “We should confer on other matters, then, and not my drunken state. Suggestions?”

“I think Smee’s birthday is coming up?” Victor says.

“Smee’s birthday, it is.”

-

“Yes I’m a necromancer!” the outside of the witch’s home positively shouts from its rooftops, skulls  lining it from said rooftop to the bottom, hanging on long chains of regular bone. Killian keeps his sword at the ready.

Victor however acts like he’s at a showing of the wonders of far off lands and other worlds. He stares at the bones and comments, “This is artful.”

“This is demonic,” Hawke says.

“Who says demons don’t appreciate art?” Victor argues.

Absently, Killian remarks, “He does have a point there, Hawke.”

Hawke practically growls at that. “My point is that I’m staying out here. Holler if you’re dying. I’ll come to die with you, I guess.”

Victor chuckles nervously. Hawke made no mention of saving. Optimism, that’s exactly why Killian keeps the man around.

They leave Hawke behind next to the boat and cross the rickety wooden bridge to the witch’s home, and with a grimace, Killian knocks on the bone plated door.

“Don’t worry,” a soft voice calls out from inside, “It’s only dragon bone.”

“Grateful to hear that you didn’t graft human bones to make your door,” Killian says.

_Truly_ grateful.

“Don’t you think that would’ve been a bit much?” the voice says again, much closer and less soft.

Killian glances at the skull decorated house again. A wind blows and the skulls bounce carelessly against the siding.

“No.”

The woman that appears at the door when it swings open is quite different than he expected.

Given that she looks to be no more than seventeen that _is_ to be expected.

“I came into my magic at a young age,” she explains with a light smile, guessing his look correctly. “My parents gifted me the house when they saw me talking to a snake skull when I was seven.”

She shrugs.

Killian gives her that and doesn’t pry into the abandonment. He isn’t here for that, to draw unpleasant memories from young women.

She reads this from him, too, and says, “You’re here to ask something of me. It’s the only reason people ever visit.”

Killian scratches at his neck.

“You’re right, lass, I do have a request.”

“Well, come in, then. I’m Gabriella. Gabby is what my friends don’t call me, but I do.”

Killian looks to Victor who already has a quizzical look on his face. A girl living on her own in the middle of a swamp with a cabin made of bone. Should they really be surprised at her strangeness?

Victor clears his throat and points out, “You’re remarkably kind given the circumstances.”

“I could have the hordes of dead sea animals drag your ship underneath if you threatened me. You’re remarkably calm given those circumstances.”

Victor shushes at that, only opens his mouth to say, “I like the decor.”

Killian echoes the remark because inside her home, the skulls and bones are absent. It’s cozy in the living room that they step into and the chairs she gestures to are soft, comfortable looking things.

Killian feels his heart pang at that. This place is cozy and warm, and he feels like an intruder, an invader. He feels like a pirate dirtying his boots on her carpet.

“So, what did you come to ask me?” she asks with a smile that is seemingly unaware of just how much he does not belong here.

Killian offers her a smile - that much he can give her - and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“At the moment, I was wondering if we could borrow some flour.”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Her home is cozy and warm, and smells like bread fresh out the oven, and Killian thinks of his men on this journey with him.

“Is this a trick?” She stares at him thoughtfully. “Have you lost your marbles and you’re looking for me to find them for you?”

“No,” Killian says. He explains not just to her, but to himself as well, the realization coming with each word, “It just occurred to me that we’ve run out and today’s my first mate’s birthday. He’ll be missing his cake.”

She gawks at him. “Well, this is the first request I’ve ever had to actually astound me.”

That makes two of them. Three if he’s counting Victor’s scoffed, “Smee? Really?”

She turns around and makes towards her kitchen. Killian’s unsure whether to smile until she waves behind her. Standing in the doorway while she bustles through the cabinets, Killian says, “I’ve another, after this, if it’s not too much to ask.”

She turns back around, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m getting a slice of this cake.”

“Of course,” Killian replies.

While she’s standing there, he draws the book from out of his satchel hanging at his side and says, “Is there any chance that you can read this book for me, lass?”

She doesn’t even bother to take it, just looks at the cover, and says, “Not a chance in hell. I only read and speak one language, but -” She smiles. “I do make a mean pound cake. And I can tell you who might know.”

“Who?” Killian asks.

And really he’s tired of all this chasing, but her smile is pleasant enough as she turns about gathering the flour and sugar from her cupboard that the disappointment isn’t so draining for once. She hasn’t tried to kill them for once.

The necromancer isn’t interested in murder; wonders never cease.

“He likes to barter in magical items, that dumb wizard.”

Killian groans in realization. “The Wonderful -”

“Wizard of Oz,” he and Gabby finish at the same time.

“Why didn’t we think of him sooner?” Victor marvels.

There’s an audible clap in the room as Victor’s hand meets his face.

She stares at Victor and scoffs, “Who wants to think of _him_?” while her face turns a shade of red that Killian finds all too familiar.

Killian thinks...he doesn’t voice a damn word of what he thinks, just says, “Thank you. I’ll tell him that you sent us your way.”

“Don’t you dare,” she warns.

There’s a spark of something warm and _not_ cozy in the air and Killian swallows.

“I won’t,” he swears.

“Cool,” she says.

“Now about that cake?”

-

Smee enjoys his cake.

Gabby enjoys her slice.

And Killian? He enjoys the brief time where he actually feels okay before, of course, they take the Doors to Oz. No one can feel okay going through that, but the physically daunting journey aside, Killian allows his hope to burn just that much brighter now. It’s fitting that the first friendly person Emma ever met with him should be the one to help him find her.

That person being Walsh is a sad fact, and Killian doesn’t much like the git, but he can stomach his company for the sake of once again being in Emma’s. Henry, if anything, is eager to meet him, but Henry was eager to meet Circe as well, and Henry was eager to make Killian’s acquaintance; his taste is a bit scattered.

“We pretended to be from Oz. Emma said it was cool there. I can’t wait to see it,” is just a few of the excited phrases that leave Henry’s mouth. He instructs Henry not to eat before they enter the Doors, just in case the excitement turns to expulsion in the storm. He’s going to have enough of that as it is.

It’s the calm before the storm that he’s feeling, he supposes. There’s a crackle of energy working beneath his skin, and it only surges when they hit the Doors.

They’re through before Killian recognizes the feeling.

He’s eager, too.

Enough that he more than humors Henry’s questions, indulges in telling him tales of Oz that he never got the chance to tell Emma and - “I’m going to write this down. She’ll like that!” - Henry and he are of the same mind on that front.

When he gets the chance, he’ll tell her as many as he can.

It’s only when he steps down in Oz, and Walsh’s voice booms across the city that Killian feels a dash of trepidation. He tsks in annoyance - at himself, at Walsh - and as Walsh starts his spiel, Killian says, “We’re not here for the games, Wizard. I have business.”

“Business?” Walsh’s voice quiets down.

Henry follows Killian quietly. They left Victor and Hawke behind for this one, Oz being safer than any other place they’ve travelled to, it’s glittering streets and colorful people more than willing to put up with a couple of pirates.

Walsh doesn’t speak to them again until their ensconced within the poorly decorated halls of his home and it’s just him, stepping out from behind his curtain to meet them.

“What business do you have with me?” Walsh questions.

He looks concerned, a curious look on someone that Killian only _just_ thought to ask. The concern is so much that Killian hushes Henry before he can voice their query and asks instead, “What business _should_ I have with you?”

“He’s new,” Walsh points at Henry, a less than smooth deflection.

“This is Henry, and -” It nags at him, the way Walsh pointed out Henry. Killian frowns, stepping forward as he casually mentions, “You didn’t ask about Emma.”

“Emma?” Walsh says, eyes widening a tad.

“Lovely lass, went by the name of Emmet?”

He’s stepped about five paces closer to Walsh now, and he knows there’s a dangerous lilt to his voice when he looks at the Wizard who positively looks like running.

There’s must be a dangerous look to his expressions as well.

“I didn’t think you knew,” Walsh says after a beat, wincing slightly when Killian clenches his teeth, his jaw jumping.

“I didn’t,” Killian says. “And now I do.”

“That’s...good? Where is she, by the way?” Walsh asks, looking about like he’s going to find his answer in the empty space where Emma _should_ be.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Killian replies.

Walsh livens up at that. “Well, I’d love to tell you, but I just don’t know?”

Killian wheels back around to look at Henry who’s looking at him like he needs to take his emotions down a few notches. Killian tries to oblige and says, “Henry, meet Walsh. Walsh, this is Henry, our newest crew member.”

“Nice to meet you, dude,” Walsh says.

Henry draws back. “You too?” Shaking his head, he furrows his brows before reaching into his satchel and revealing the book within.

Walsh’s face, if anything, looks even guiltier.

“Can you read this?” Killian asks.

He doesn’t expect him to. Walsh is more hot air than actual magic, so he isn’t surprised when he says, “No but -”

The “but” is exactly what Killian was hoping for.

Walsh frowns at him, tracing the lines of the hawk’s wings on the cover of the book and says, “Someone drew a map here - but you can’t read it, can you?”

“I can read a bloody map. That isn’t -”

Walsh ‘ah’s. “I won’t argue that skill of yours, but this one is not of the physical kind. It’s more of a metaphysical? Or is the word I’m looking for metaphorical?” Walsh considers this for a moment, and says, “I’ll just go with magical. It’s a magic map.”

“What kind of magic?” Killian says.

“The tricky kind. The kind that tests you at every turn.”

Killian considers the past couple of weeks – the only thing that tested him at every turn was his own self-defeating hope, and that he would get it up only to be so let down – “So, what, it wanted to see if I would get so frustrated that I would just give up?”

“I guess, if that’s what you surmise. Honestly, this seems like the work of a bored god.”

Killian grits his teeth. Circe played him, and played him well. She bested him. He can give her that, and if he could, if it were possible, he’d give her much worse.

“Well that sounds about right,” Killian breathes out, trying to tone down his temper and failing. He draws out another angry breath and, dragging his fingers through his hair, he says, “And I suppose you would say that the map was leading us right to you all along.”

“I would,” Walsh says.

“But if you did, I would have to throttle you.”

“You would,” Walsh says with the same certainty.

“So, perhaps we won’t say that then, save the throttling, and you can just sell us the spell that we need to find Emma.”

“Find Emma? You’ve lost her?” Walsh asks.

“She -”

Killian isn’t sure how to follow that up.

“She left,” Henry says. “But we’re going to find her.”

Walsh looks skeptical at that. “Perhaps she had good reason to leave?”

“Perhaps,” Killian grouses, “But we’ll have to ask her when we find her. Which you were saying…”

Walsh looks towards the smoked ceiling as if for guidance. Killian glares at him until he finally draws his eyes back down to reality and not the smoky illusions he’s so fond of.

“It’s not that simple,” Walsh says.

“What do you mean?”

“I…” Walsh shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “This book was borrowed from the library of a particularly…” He twists his mouth down in a grimace, eyebrows raised before settling on, “Eccentric wizard in Misthaven. He’ll be able to read it, but he might not want to.”

Killian narrows his eyes, sensing the lie. “And why not?” he asks.

“Because it wasn’t borrowed, it was stolen from his library and now he wards off all…visitors with spells that even I’m not sure of. And considering…”

Walsh’s pauses are seemingly endless.

“Considering what?”

“Your state of dress for one,” Walsh remarks. Killian glowers and Walsh shrugs. “You dress like what you are and he’ll be about as welcoming of pirates as he is of thieves.”

“It’s not that hard to change an outfit,” Killian says.

“You’d think so and yet…”

He gestures at Killian with a dramatic wave of his hand.

And Killian gets that he means that this is the look that Walsh last saw him in, but the phrasing irks him. Irks and makes him consider what he is - and it’s been forever since he looked down on that word - “ _pirate_ ” - looked down on himself for there’s not much to look down on when you’ve already fallen to the bottommost depths.

But he hasn’t really been that much of pirate lately, has he?

He slips his hand into his coat pocket in search of his flask - only remembers that he hasn’t bothered to refill it since his drunken moment before Smee’s birthday when his rings clank and echo off the empty bottle.

He furrows his brow and asks, “So, what do you suggest for getting us in there, oh great wizard?”

“Please, be more sarcastic.” Walsh doesn’t even give Killian the chance to fulfill his request (pity) before he adds. “I have several ideas.”

“Pick the best one,” Killian says.

“Best is a relative term,” Walsh replies. He waffles for a moment before settling his gaze upon Henry. “You might not like this.”

He’s probably right, so Killian lets Henry answer this for him.

“Tell us what we need to do.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow managed to update a chapter in a week? Who'd've thought? Ah, I really love this chapter and I hope you love it, too, and a special thanks to Sandy and Steph for helping me get through it. Thank you again for all your kind words and kudos!

The sun is bright in the ever-blue sky, but not enough to burn his face or soak him in his leathers. The birds are whistling in the trees, snippets of songs Killian can only guess at the meaning of. The grass beneath his feet is greener and crisper than any he’s ever seen and the world seems to echo with life.

All in all, it’s an idyllic day to face off against a wizard.

“I don’t see why you decided that I was to be the guinea pig when Henry volunteered.”

Killian slowly swivels around to meet Victor’s whining form. Bouncing slightly, he grins and says, “It takes three to tackle such a formidable task.” He steps over and claps Victor on the back. “Be glad you’ve been chosen, aye?”

Victor executes a glare that might have made Killian feel badly, might have made him want to _do_ bad like foisting the job of swabbing the deck onto the doctor _if_ the circumstances were different and he didn’t have much better uses for him in mind. He’s heard Victor’s tales of what they do to guinea pigs in his realm and as much as those experiments draw Killian’s distaste, it is still an apt descriptor for what he’s about to use him, Hawke, and Henry for.

He would’ve chosen someone else for the third, Ethan maybe, or Ward just to be rid of the man if worst came to - best perhaps not being the term befitting of Killian’s more virtuous side. Henry had volunteered, however, and he wouldn’t let Killian hear the end of it if they didn’t allow him to play the part. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he can’t deny a man his own decisions. Henry may be only fourteen, but living on his own for so long and joining in Killian’s crew makes him as much of a man as any of them.

Perhaps a better one than any of them because he does this for the noblest of causes.

“We have to make sure she’s okay,” Henry had said, and Killian had nodded in agreement, feeling the weight of his omission behind it.

He has to make sure that Emma’s okay, for her sake and for his sake. For _her_ sake, he has to know that she’s okay. For his sake, he has to see it, has to feel it, cup her cheek with his hand and be sure that she’s okay and ask her whether she’d be better, still, if she were by his side.

The way he is better by hers.

“I’m just hoping the choosing doesn’t kill me,” Victor remarks while surveying their destination.

Trees rise up before them, evergreens and poplars, a confusing mismatch of foliage. Behind the line of trees, barely tall enough to rival their great heights, is a lone wizard’s tower. Why most wizards prefer them, Killian doesn’t know and hasn’t had much of a chance to ask because the only wizard he’s had an actual conversation with is a git who lives in a garishly colored palace.

“Stop complaining so much,” Hawke says.

He’s been surprisingly quiet up until this moment. Surprisingly _not_ cursing out his own complaints this whole time. Henry’s quiet is expected, the way he’s studying the line of trees, trying to figure out their best way forward, but Hawke’s is a bit unsettling. The man hates danger and things that can go horribly wrong, and this is all of that and more.

Still all he does is give Victor the evil eye, face screwed up in menace when Victor opens his mouth to complain again.

“Fine, fine,” Victor says, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.

“Ready then?”

Henry looks to Killian at that. It’s nice to be looked to as a Captain, as someone in command. Killian was rather starting to miss it.

“Walsh said that the spells aren’t deadly. So, we should be fine,” Henry reminds them.

“There are worse things than death,” Victor says somberly.

Killian silently agrees.

-

Trudging forward seems like their best bet, but Killian is a bit too tired of the trudge, more than eager for this lengthy journey to find its end that he races forward, only partially aware of his surroundings - trees, squirrels, moist dirt beneath his boots and more trees. They make it only a short distance in before something in the air shifts and Killian stops mid-step, realizing he’s encountered the first spell.

Spell being the wrong term for what waits for them in the smallest of clearings, barely a slice of cleared ground between the trees. Killian curses inwardly - the incompetent wizard, Walsh said it would be a spell not a bloody hippogriff with yellowed eyes locked on them like it has found its first meal after months of starvation.

“Not deadly, right. That is, if we survive it,” Killian says.

He goes for his sword, ready to blaze a trail through the beast, but Hawke - bloody hell _Hawke_? - grabs his wrist and says, “Hold off. That thing will tear you to shreds if it sees your sword.”

Frustrated, Killian scoffs, “When did you learn so much about hippogriffs?”

Hawke looks to Henry pointedly. After a beat in which Killian has the chance to groan, “The book, of course,” Hawke takes two slow steps forward, to Henry’s side.

“You want to take care of this one? The witch doctor and I will handle the other two.”

“I think I can handle it, yeah,” Henry replies.

Bewildered, Killian keeps his hand on his blade, but doesn’t move to unsheathe it. He tenses as Henry steps forward within the hippogriff’s line of sight and within easy pickings territory, drawing the beast’s attention. He feels his hand grip the handle of his sword too tight, but he has every right to be worried. The beast snorts, blowing smoke through its nose - great it’s a fire-breathing hippogriff, in case he wanted his corpse to be deep-fried before digestion by chimera - and starts to pace, back and forth, swinging its head from side to side.

Still, Henry keeps stepping forward, seemingly uncaring of the beast’s attempts at intimidation, and Killian catches on. Don’t show fear, it’s the first thing you learn with creatures of this sort. He’s glad Henry’s learned that lesson, frowns in acknowledgement of how he learned to face a terror with his chin held high and his mouth pursed tight.

It’s the way Henry bows to it that lifts Killian’s eyebrows and would have him scratching at his chin in confusion if he wasn’t currently rolling his eyes in disbelief at the lad baring his neck to a creature with claws sharp and strong enough to tear through bone.

After a beat, to Killian’s amazement (which should have long passed at this point), the beast pauses in its pacing, the thick feathers above its eyes almost rising like eyebrows too. Its eyes narrow and then finally it makes a whistling noise, steam blowing from its beak. Following Henry’s example, it dips its head in a slight bow.

“Yes,” Henry hisses as he straightens, his fist pumping lightly into the sky.

Without trepidation in his step this time, he moves forward, hand raised and held flat before him. The beast steps towards him as well while keeping its head still dipped. They meet halfway, Henry’s hand combing through the thick feathering while it purrs - not a bit of feline in it, and still it purrs as Henry pets it.

“You read this in the book,” Killian states.

Henry doesn’t draw his eyes away from the chimera, so Hawke is the one to answer, “Of course.”

“I need to give it a thorough read, then,” Killian says.

“Really? I thought you already had. You’ve had it just as many times as Henry,” Victor exclaims.

Killian looks to him, mouth thinning. He stays quiet at that because he’d rather not admit that all that time he’s spent with the book has been running his fingers over the inked lines of Emma’s words, memorizing the messy curves of her handwriting, wondering at the emotion behind each word, the moment that she thought worth detailing - that piece of his life, of Victor’s, that letter to Henry.

His longing is his own.

Henry keeps his hand on the hippogriff while Victor starts to inch forward. Killian smiles at that, only to call after him, “Are you that eager to face off against this wizard?”

“I’m eager to get away from a hippogriff, yeah. Henry may have found the gentle heart underneath those gigantic wings, but I’m not giving it a chance to find mine beneath my rib cage.”

“So you must then be eager to step into the next trap? Truly, you are the bravest of us all, Doctor Frankenstein,” Killian comments.

Victor pauses in his step and then shoots accusing eyes at Killian. “I’m pragmatic, not scared.”

“You can be both,” Killian allows him.

Victor opens his mouth. Closes it. Reopens it and says, “I’m both.”

-

Trap, spell, curse number two of three goes well for five seconds before it all goes to hell and beyond. Even Hades would take no credit for this nonsense.

The hippogriff follows them deeper into the wooded territory. They can’t shake it - Victor tries, scoping a path far ahead of the rest of them, but having earned its respect, Henry had apparently earned its undying loyalty as well. Killian, Henry and Hawke end up falling behind, letting it and Victor chart the path before them. It stalks forward with determination, seeming to know exactly where it’s going.

To the wizard who uses a hippogriff as a ward.

It’s easy to let yourself fall into a state of comfort when you have a fire-breathing hippogriff as your guide. It’s easy enough when you’re so keen on moving forward that you don’t bother to take two steps back and assess.

Easy to fall down into a bloody ravine when it wasn’t there before.

They hit bottom with a painful, bone jarring thud. His hands don’t so much as break his fall as tremble painfully beneath him, making him bite back a hissed cry as he pushes up and off them. Someone’s foot is pressed against him and he turns, looking for Henry, finding the boy rising dazed beside them.

A noise above them draws his gaze and he glares into the saddened eyes of the hippogriff, its plaintive cries doing nothing to cease Hawke’s curses - “Fucking hippogriff can fly.”

“No warning, eh?” Killian throws the words at the hippogriff.

It cocks its head, whistling smoke through its beak.

“Bloody buggering fuck,” Hawke curses.

Killian looks about them, at the smoothed stone walls before them and closes his eyes, breathes deep. Perfects a smile and an easy grin when he says, “This is your chance, Victor. You wanted your name to stand for something, right? Let it stand for the man that got us out of this hole.”

Victor huffs. Loudly. Eyes staring accusations and hate into Killian’s.

He tips his head in acknowledgement. It was worth a shot.

“It could’ve been worse,” Henry says, patting the softened ground beside them. “The feathers pillowed the fall.”

Feathers. Killian didn’t notice the giant feathers before. The black and brown kind of all looks the same when your head is swimming from having hit the ground. He doesn’t lose his focus this time, looking about them as Victor says, “Yes, we could’ve cracked all our limbs on the way down and we would’ve experienced sudden death instead of the slow death of starvation and exposure.”

He straightens and scrambles to his feet. “Sudden death is still on the menu. That is a rather large cockerel,” Killian says, nodding in the direction of the rooster stepping towards them.

“You’re joking right. It’s a rooster,” Victor says. “Is it going to yodel us to death?”

Killian tries to bite back the smile from his voice, but can’t help it. They’re stuck in a hole they can’t scale, walls so smooth even a hook would not find a grip, a hippogriff pacing above them making frightened and confused noises that leave steam billowing from its beak, and there’s a nine foot, certainly at least two hundred pound rooster staring at them in open curiosity as they stand above its shed feathers.

The situation is so ridiculous as to border on distressing, but edging closer to frustrating beyond all measure.

“We could climb the rooster’s back,” Henry suggests, standing on unsteady feet. “It’s big enough that we could just scale it to the top.”

Killian nods, agreeing. “Brilliant idea. Victor?”

“I’ll go first, right. It’s my task.”

“That it is,” Killian says, nodding in the direction of the bird now pacing towards them.

The crow of a rooster would not seem fatal, normally, but when this one lifts its head to yodel out, Killian wishes he were within reach of Victor to strangle him for pressing the idea.

Then he steps into reach of Victor to draw him back sharply. With a swift motion, he unsheathes his blade. The rooster stills its cry and Killian’s ears stop ringing, but now he can hear it as well as see it as the king snake slithers between the rooster’s legs.

“Don’t look it in the eye,” Killian says, clapping his hand over Victor’s face.

“Nine foot rooster, twenty foot snake. Makes sense,” Killian mutters, his eyes poised on the snake’s form, carefully avoiding its gaze.

They say that basilisks are birthed from the egg of a cockerel. Killian wishes he couldn’t vouch for their claims.

“Eyes to the left, Victor,” Killian says as he draws his hand from Victor’s face.

“Henry?” he calls out.

“My back is turned.”

“Hawke?”

“Can’t bloody shoot it through the eye if I can’t look it in the eye!”

“ _Hawke_?”

“I have six bolts and a clear enough shot at its head. The bloody thing is big enough.”

It slithers closer and they all draw back. His back meets Henry’s and he says, “Keep moving forward, we’ll be right behind.”

The basilisk doesn’t seem to much care for them, instead slipping in and out of the legs of the rooster. At first Killian thinks it’s because it doesn’t see them, not that he’s stupid enough to check, but then he realizes that the rooster keeps making noises, nurturing sounds and he cringes.

He isn’t going to wait for its father to basilisk the go ahead to kill them.

“Mind loosing those bolts, Hawke?”

The sound of his voice works to distract the basilisk, draw its attention away from papa dearest and pull it towards him. It slithers slowly. Great, it likes to _play_ with its food. Sudden death is off the menu, then. Killian realizes why the walls are smooth as it draws closer, its body’s secretions burning away the walls as it passes.

Venom strong enough to stench the air and scour stone.

Deep-fried doesn’t seem the worst way to die, even.

And he’s truly questioning Walsh’s definition of fatal.

The first of Hawke’s bolts ping off the snake’s tail as it makes its third turn between its father’s legs. The second hits the rooster and it goes down, nearly trapping its child beneath them.

The second hits the rooster and all hell breaks loose as Hawke looses all four bolts at the angrily hissing snake. It doesn’t so much as cause a dent in its scales, only making it angry enough to rise above them and spit.

Henry’s too far away to be hit, luckily, but Killian pushes Victor to the side as he dives for the other.

There’s a clatter of bodies as they roll out of the way of the venom burning a hole into the ground, but there’s no chance to let it settle before they’re moving off the floor, stepping in the direction Henry walked towards.

“Bloody buggering fuck!” Hawke says with more force behind it than before.

“I’ve got an idea,” Victor shouts.

He’s stepping backwards, quick steps that remind Killian that he’s supposed to be a lord’s son, his feet dancing like he’s at a ball rather than stumbling around as the drunk who can’t hold his liquor.

“Basilisks can’t swim, right?” Victor asks, question bouncing off the ravine’s walls.

He’s a pirate, not a beast master. Killian has no bloody clue.

“Why do you ask?” he drawls, following in Victor’s speedy steps, sword raised although he doubts it’ll do much more than Hawke’s bolts did.

“Oh fuck off, Captain.” He turns his head and shouts, “Henry?”

“Can’t swim,” Henry confirms.

“Thanks.” He turns to Killian. “Keep it coming this way, close to the wall.”

“Sure,” Killian says in realization of Victor’s plan.

 He can hear the rush of water somewhere in the distance behind, even over the basilisk’s hissing. It lets loose another spit of venom, this time in Hawke’s direction, who screams out a curse new to Killian’s ears. Killian turns sharply, but Hawke merely shakes his head even as his arm hisses with heat.

“Keep Henry between you and the king snake, right?”

“Sure,” Victor replies easily.

It eases Killian somewhat, even as he yells, “Oi!” at the snake to draw its attention away from Hawke, Victor and Henry, and towards the wall he’s pressing himself against.

He waits until he sees the head rise, eyes focused on what he supposes would be the neck if it wasn’t a snake as it lifts in preparation before he dives out of the way. The snake’s ball of spit hits the wall and it slithers faster in response, speeding up Killian’s own backwards steps. Luckily, Hawke, Victor and Henry have moved further down the ravine so he has nothing to trip over except his own feet and Killian, well, he’s always been a brilliant dancer.

He keeps it up, but as the sound of water comes to a rush, he stands still backing up until he’s pressed against the wall he can hear the water behind. This time, the basilisk doesn’t bother with the spit, just shifts and rings toward him, its coils burning at the wall.

Venom drips down between its teeth, burning more holes in the ground as it moves to strike.

Killian turns swiftly and the head hits the wall. As the water trickles down, the wall already giving way from the force of the hit, it starts to wash away the venom. The snake pauses for a moment as it gets hit with the first drops that sizzle and spatter. It spits again, hitting the wall, and it burns right through. King Snake it may be, but as with many kings, it’s not the brightest, only the biggest. Which comes in handy with keeping Killian alive, so he’ll take it, keep watching it spit their way out.

He steps back and prepares himself for a swim.

The wall crumbles only three monstrous spit balls later, the weight of the water bursting it and seeking the empty space of the basilisk’s former home. Killian takes a deep breath and goes under, his last thought that he didn’t need a hot sun to soak his leathers, just his own incompetence and Victor’s flash of brilliance.

He allows himself a moment to worry that the venom might poison the water, allows himself another moment to worry that the snake might actually survive the explosion of it filling the ravine, but his allowances are unnecessary. As he swims, he watches as it sinks to the bottom, venom sizzling harmlessly away in the waves.

Satisfied, he fights his own heavy weight to reach the surface. His first gulp of air clears his head, his next are harsh inhales and exhales. He doesn’t see Victor, Hawke, or Henry.

And then he hears them.

“Bloody buggering son of a goddamn fuck fucking hell bullshitty fuck.”

Hears Hawke, rather.

So much for what he said about the man being quiet; he’s more than making up for it right now.

Killian swims in that direction to find them already rolled to what is now shore, the side of the ravine closest to the wizard’s lair. He’s calling it that now. With wards such as these, that tower must be one.

He looks out first because he definitely doesn’t think they have had the presence of mind to check their surroundings given Hawke’s injury and his giving voice to it.

Who knows what curses Hawke’s cursing will bring?  
  
Still, all he can see is an archway opening the stone wall surrounding the wizard’s tower and beyond that a path leading all the way to the tower’s entrance.

“Calm down. You’re not going to die, sadly. The water didn’t wash away my poison salves or burn creams.”

“Thank fucking fuck for that,” Hawke hisses ungratefully.

Killian turns towards them again to find Henry leaning up against his hippogriff friend as he watches the two of them with an expression so stony as to make him look petrified.

He snaps his fingers once, just in case, and Henry twists towards him, grin breaking through the stone.

“That was brilliant. _Victor_ is brilliant.”

He sounds surprised. Victor huffs at that.

“A bloody marvel, for sure,” Killian agrees.

“Bandages are too soaked to do much good, but you should be okay to face our next task.”

“Good on me!” Hawke says.

Henry leans back against the hippogriff, combs his fingers through its feathers again.

“Yes, yes. Good on you.”

-

Either way they look at it, this was a bad idea. Marking Walsh’s words, best was definitely a relative term because between not trying at all and giving up on Emma altogether, this fell somewhere along the line of actively trying to harm the mission.

Deliberately stepping into the path of a curse falls somewhere along the line of actively trying to harm themselves.

Killian stares up into the sky, seeking support from the sun now blazing down upon them and drying his clothes. Its yellow light seems more menacing now than anything, but it can be no worse than the curse currently afflicting his favorite crew members. Favorite, also being a relative term, because sometimes it feels like he’s merely tolerating Victor, and sometimes it feels like he could sit down beside him and share a pint and a story, and perhaps, a normal conversation.

Sometimes, Killian gets tired of living in his own head, and he supposes that’s why he tolerates Victor’s less than gentle taunts and probing words.

He returns his gaze to the lightly tread ground, to the aftereffects of the curse. There’s dust settling in the air, a sparkling white like ice shavings, the kind one might eat covered in nectar from the gods - if one were crazy enough to steal it; he almost feels remiss at not ever having given that true thought. Beneath the dust are feathers settling over fragile bone and claws and webbed feet settling onto damp ground, and all Killian can do is look to Hawke and shrug.

He looks up at the sign above the archway. “Beware all ye who enter here,” and has to fight back a smile at that. Somewhere along the line of hippogriffs, basilisks, and “bloody buggering bullshit,” this has taken a turn for the over the top insanity.

What a curse to befall them.

It takes them a long way down, in fact. Swans and roosters barely come up to the knee height, especially a swan not fully grown and a rooster too big for his own...

He tries not to think of where their clothes have gone and whether they’ll reappear once they’re turned back into their human forms again. The thought is as unnatural and disturbingly ridiculous as the transformation.

He groans and starts towards Henry, his coloring still slightly dark enough to prove that he isn’t a fully grown swan, which Killian wisely doesn’t point out as the hippogriff noses closer to Henry, glaring at Killian’s approaching form with, no doubt, thoughts of deep-fried pirate in - what was the bloody point of this disguise again; he’s not seeing one. Looking like a mere traveler helped him naught in getting through safely.

“As this is my fault -”

He really doesn’t expect a response. Who expects swans to start talking, even if they’re lads cursed into one? Still, he gets one, Henry’s reply, voice an octave higher, ready to break, his beak wide open, “It is.”

“- I vow that I will do everything in my power to get you out of this.”

“Well, then, this curse will be everlasting.”

(Exaggeration.)

“You couldn’t even convince Emma to stay.”

(Bitter.)

Henry’s tone is all bitter, which twists at Killian’s chest, how easily the transformation has twisted at Henry’s. Killian can understand, a bit, but he sounds far too much like Killian feels. Killian can’t have him fall into the same state as himself; one is enough.

Henry is all hopefulness; Emma would never forgive him if he lost that.

“And I swore that I would find her. Do you doubt me, Mr. Swan?” Killian asks.

He realizes the name is a bit too on the nose at the moment, but Henry merely sighs, a slight quacking following the sound, and says (the dramatics he must have inherited from Emma, too.) “Truthfully? No”

Victor is much less obliging.

Emma had it easy. At least Killian and the crew didn’t have the presence of mind to complain when Circe turned them into pigs. She didn’t have to hear Victor squawk between every curse. Frankly, Emma’s a lucky woman.

“Save the histrionics for another time, Victor. Your life is in no danger,” Killian explains to his rooster-cursed doctor.

“My dignity?”

Killian scoffs and picks Victor off the ground as he squawks in anger. “Still in no danger, and if you keep complaining, you’ll be making your way through this path on your own flightless wings.”

“Roosters can fly...short distances,” Victor says.

He hears Henry quack as Hawke lifts him beneath his uninjured arm, to the chagrin of the hippogriff who noses against Hawke disapprovingly.

“This distance seem short to you?”

“Fine. I’ll keep my complaints to myself.”

Killian throws his head back, muttering, “The gods truly have seen themselves fit to smile down on me.”

“I think they’re laughing, actually,” Victor points out, not incorrectly.

Killian rolls his eyes and keeps walking along the path. With the curse out of the way, all they have now is to convince the wizard to turn Victor and Henry back and help them read this book. It feels the heavy weight on Killian’s shoulders until he drops Victor for a second to adjust the strap of his satchel, its waterproofing keeping the book safe within it during their swim. He picks Victor up again and keeps going, wondering at the fact that he and Hawke managed to go unchanged.

The wizard, for all his flaws, cursing people into avian forms, hippogriffs, and basilisk being the main ones, seems to be a gracious host at least. He’s waiting within the doorway of his tower, propped up on heeled boots - the older man is short but not in those heels - and he has his arms open in welcome. Or in the makings of a spell.

There’s no spark on the air, no hot wave of imminent magic, so Killian supposes he’s safe.

There’s no hello or greeting, just an excited, “Your friends get caught in my spell and you’re here to ask me how to change them back?” from the wizard’s mouth.

“Yes and no,” Killian replies.

“I don’t like mixed responses,” the wizard says, narrowing his eyes. He straightens within the doorway, placing his hands on his hips. “Be clear. Do you want them changed back or not?”

Victor squawks underneath his arm and Killian drops him to the ground looking at him. He does make a rather handsome bird, though the green feathers are a bit much. And the eyes are a little too human to not be disconcerting. Finding a new doctor would be a difficult task, too.

Henry, for one, definitely doesn’t deserve this cursed fate.

“I do,” Killian says because he’d rather Victor’s accusing stare on a human than a bird.

“So what’s the ‘No’?”

“I’ve another request as well,” Killian explains.

“Of course you do. It’s not enough that you stepped into my curse - do you know how much preparation I have to put into a spell like that? It’s a week’s worth of feather collecting.”

“Of course it is,” Killian replies with a voice so chipper as to betray how very _not_ chipper he is.

“And the swans are not the most obliging of creatures. Don’t much like being plucked. The chickens, they always think I’m preparing them to being cooked when I take a few feathers off their backs. I’ve been a vegetarian for years. You’d think they would know this by now.”

Killian frowns, gaping slightly.

“What is the lifespan of a chicken?”

“I’ve been a vegetarian for six years now.” His eyes rove down to Victor. “Sometimes, I do miss it.”

“That’s probably what they sense,” Victor says, pulling back behind Killian’s legs like he’ll start chomping the moment he gets his hands on him.

“You think?” the wizard asks, sounding surprised at that.

“Look, I really would like him to stop squawking at my ankles. Will you turn them back?”

Killian hopes to gods that it isn’t a curse that will take him long to fix.

The gods answer his prayers.

“Why not? What was the other request?”

“It’s more like a gift,” Killian says with a cheeky grin. “We share a mutual acquaintance. A scoundrel that goes by the name of the Wizard of Oz.”

“Oh it’s that asshole,” the wizard says with a crossing of his arms and an angry pout.

“Yeah, that one. He says he’s the reason you have these curses and traps up in the first place.”

“Traps?” The wizard looks confused at that, eyes roving to the hippogriff and Killian startles. Did he really consider leaving such a creature at the edges of his home _not_ a trap? Killian cautions himself not to ask, because the answer might just make him want to quit.

(A lie, a stupid, stupid lie.)

The wizard raises his hands and continues with a crackle of magic in the air, “He sent you back to finish raiding my library?”

Calmly, his hand relaxed at his side despite how he wants to move it to his belt, he says, “I sent myself here to give you back the book he stole. I’ve no interest in mending the broken trust between the two of you, just a vested interest in getting you to translate said book for me.”

“ _That_ book?”

Killian steps closer, pursing his lips in confusion.

“What interest would you have in _that_?”

He really doesn’t like that tone, but he explains, “We’re looking for someone. It’s supposed to help us find her.”

“ _That’s_ what he told you?”

That, that, that. The wizard truly sure knows how to clarify a meaning.

The wizard shakes his head and says, “Alright come inside. You’ve given me good enough reason not to turn you into a bird as well.”

“Can you do that?”

“Force fields that turn all who pass it into birds? That takes preparation. One man? That takes nothing more than a flick of my wrist.”

“Good to know.”

Killian vows to tread carefully, and he does so anyway because as soon as he hits the top stair, he notes the bird droppings littering it. It’s bad enough to have feathers sticking to his new cloak. This is disgusting. It’s almost as bad as the sirens, but at least the stench is better.

“I clean inside, but with the bars right above the door, there’s just no use. Ever-clean spells are hard to come by and I just don’t have the energy to waste on cleaning up the pigeon droppings every day, twice a day which is what’s necessary.”

“Not that I’m not interested in hearing about how much you don’t like cleaning bird droppings, but can we take this conversation indoors so you can turn them back?”

“Yes, yes. You’re rather pushy for a…” He looks Killian over with curious eyes, his golden ones roving like a hawk’s might. “Who did you say you were again?”

“Killian Jones, sailor.”

“Pirate.”

Killian bows. “Ah, so my reputation precedes me.”

“I keep my valuable trades on land, yes.”

Killian smirks at that.

“What valuable trades does a bird wizard have?” Killian asks.

“Bird wizard is only my title, not my name. It’s Geoffrey, by the way.” He throws a grin at Killian as he leads him inside, and up the curving stairs. He goes on to explain, “Certain birds are hard to come by. Quite valuable to those like me.”

“Those like you?”

Geoffrey hums like that’s as much of an answer as Killian’s going to get. He bloody hates wizards.

They reach the top of his stairs and the wizard waves them towards a motley collection of chairs around a table. Killian doesn’t sit but he plops Victor down on the floor at his feet.

Victor finally speaks at that, “Change me back. My dignity can’t take this.”

Killian rolls his eyes to the heavens again.

Still, with a wave of his hand, the wizard turns him and Henry into humans. Thankfully, their clothes come with them.

Hawke curses and says, “You couldn’t have done that before we had to carry them up the stairs?”

“Come now, Hawke, a little exercise can do you wonders,” Victor says, clapping him on the back.

“You saved my life today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kill ya,” Hawke says.

“Right,” Victor replies.

The wizard looks between the two warily before he says, “It’s easier up here where the air is clearer. There’s more magic in the skies than there is on land.”

“Right,” Killian echoes Victor’s reply.

“So, mate, the book?” Killian asks.

He’s never feared being hopeful before, but given his latest string of bad luck and goose chasing, he’s rather scared of what he’ll do should this book be another dead end. Pulling it out of his satchel, he approaches Geoffrey, holding it out to him.

The wizard snatches it up, clutching it to his chest lovingly.

“This book -” He looks at Killian curiously. “You know, give me the time and I could teach you to read it yourself. I had a student once who learned the language of birds, many years ago. A brilliant young woman who was hiding out with me until they discovered her. She didn’t want to risk my life so she ran.”

Killian has never feared being hopeful but - “Who’s this ‘they’ and what was her name?”

“Snow White, of course. Don’t you know the story at all?”

Henry pipes in happily. “Actually, that one’s not in our book.”

Killian grumbles pointedly in Henry’s direction, “Yes, I do know the story, but the details of her learning to speak to birds did escape me. Have you had any other students recently?”

“I take in a few upon occasion, some young men, another young lady. Though none have been as adept at it as Snow.”

“Did you take in a woman named Emma?”

“No,” the man says and Killian settles back down.

Instead of giving in to the disappointment, he latches onto the book still in the man’s hands about to ask about its origins, its translation, its - instead of giving into his disappointment, he thinks about Snow White on the run, hiding out with Geoffrey, the bird wizard, and learning to speak bird.

He thinks of Snow White, of Prince Charming, chasing after each other, and it clicks into place. He draws his head sharply, and says, “The Princess.”

“Which one?”

“Snow White’s daughter,” Killian remarks quietly.

“Oh bloody buggering fuck.”

“Find a new curse,” Victor says to Hawke.

Hawke’s hackles raise at that. “We have, already. Her, she’s the damn curse.”

“Who? The Princess?”

Henry’s eyes widen. “Her name is Emma. Cassie. She called her - her cousin ‘Em. Em - Emma.”

Killian remembers. Prince Frederick’s curious eyes. Emma as Emmet’s nervous energy, ready to snap at anyone and anything, frown set on her forehead right before they embarked on their operation at Midas’ castle. Her knowledge, her manners, her skills; the way she got them out of difficult situations with _diplomacy_. How she ran from him in the night, the clock striking twelve and reality hitting her like the ringing of a bell.

How she ran.

“Killian?” Henry asks. “Do you really think?”

The book is unnecessary, is what he thinks. Circe was playing them all along, taking them back and forth along the sea only to find what she must’ve known the moment she first met Emma - and it only makes sense that a princess could convince a Queen to set them all free. Emma, it only makes sense that she’s Princess Emma.

It all makes sense and no sense at all.

Because what the hell could a princess want on a pirate ship? What could possibly make her run to him? He remembers her touch on the tattoo between his fingers, her excited gasp of “you’re a pirate.”

What could she want to run to him for?  He could only offer her his world, so far removed from her own.

(He could only offer her…)

“Killian?”

(He can only offer her…)

It makes sense, and it makes no sense at all, but he finds his heart beating a fast rhythm against his rib cage, thumping to a beat he hasn’t felt in so long.

“The Queen,” Killian says, sharply turning to Geoffrey. “You supply her aviary.”

“I do,” the wizard says. “Why?”

“I have a different favor to ask of you. Not a translation” - He shakes his head -“That book won’t help us.”

The wizard nods in agreement. “I didn’t think it would. Birds of Misthaven seems a bit of a dull read for a pirate.”

Killian could almost hate Circe for this, but he understands her motivations a bit more now. Testing just how willing he was to go to find Emma. If he’d left himself at Yzma’s island, allowed himself to be taken under her grasp, she’d have known that he wasn’t worthy of finding Emma. If he’d let himself find the seeking too hard and give up, she’d know she wasn’t worthy in his eyes.

But this, this was all a test. A final protection.

She must’ve liked Emma, quite a bit.

Or owed her quite a bit.

“What bird doesn’t the Queen have in her aviary?”

The wizard catches on to his meaning quickly, smiling warmly. “Is that all? She actually put in a request from me. Lucky you, you’re here to witness its transport.”

He looks down to Killian’s arm and murmurs. “Lucky you.”

Killian knows what the man is gazing at, having rolled up his sleeves in the heat. The phoenix tattoo laid bare for all to see, for him to know.

For Killian to understand as the wizard crosses the room to a curtained off space, pulling it back to reveal a phoenix, its feathers a dull red, its head hanging low, but lifting it slightly to look at the wizard as he says, “It’s time.”

The phoenix nods. Killian says, “Does it understand our language?”

“Phoenixes are intelligent. They may not speak the language, but they can understand, certainly.”

“A message is all I ask of you. I need to send a message.”

He crosses the room and carefully reaches out to stroke the phoenix’s head. He thinks of the blackened wings on his own arms, on fires at sea and the death of hope.

A feather falls from the crown and it seems fitting that he should place his last hopes on this, on a dying bird’s wings.

“Can you tell her for me? The princess. Just -”

He doesn’t know what to say, he finds, as he looks into the gold of its eyes. How can he ask this of it - how can he place this weight on it?

Killian hears steps behind him, and Henry says, breaking his silence, “Emmet.”

“It’s simple enough, right? She’ll get it. She’ll understand,” Henry says.

Killian nods, swallows around the sudden feeling in his throat and says, “Aye that she will.”

“What if it isn’t her?”

“Then we’ll know that, too.” He turns to the bird. “If it’s her, she’ll send it back. She will.”

Geoffrey clears his throat, drawing Killian’s attention to him and says, “We should send Alistair on his way. The journey is long and he won’t make it if I press time any longer.” He smiles and says, “Want to the do the honors?”

Killian offers his arm to the bird who slowly grips onto it. Its talons are heavy, but no more so than he would expect it to be. It’s a big bird, but it’s no nine foot rooster and Killian leads it towards the eastern window. It’s no decision at all, really. Misthaven is to the east, towards where the sun will rise come morning. Where he’ll be racing to follow the phoenix, his ship setting a course towards Misthaven, towards the east, towards her even if _Princess_ Emma (Emmet, Anna, Princess Emma; he’s peeling her back one layer after another, and he wonders who he’ll truly find) has rocked him, the sudden wave threatening to overthrow his ship and send him spinning off course, but he’s already grabbed hold of that wheel and spun it east to carry the bird towards her.

The phoenix looks to him once before it takes flight. Killian stares after it, doubtful for a beat that its wings will take it any farther than a few feet, but it doesn’t fall, and it’s only a moment before Killian blinks and it’s gone.

“I’ve spent a good month chasing after you, lass, at least let me catch you this once,” he whispers to himself, to the bird, to the hopes that he let fly off into the sky.

-

It’s been a month and she’s spent every day counting it down like she did with them.

(She’s not supposed to think about -)

So much can happen in a month but where that one flew so fast (she’s really not supposed to think about -) this one had been slowed by the numbing sensation she’d felt since she left them, like her fingertips have iced over but have yet to unthaw - if they ever would.

Maybe the soon to be visiting ice queen could help with that.

Maybe she’ll be able to help with this too. Emma could use any kind of distraction at this point.

“It’ll only be a couple more months, Emma,” her father says gently as her mother sweeps out of the dining hall, humming a jaunty tune. Red hangs at her arm, humming the same.

Emma’s starting to hate birdsong.

He offers her a hand and she takes it, getting out of her seat and leaving her plate of food mostly untouched. She hopes he doesn’t notice. Hopes that he’ll be the father that tries to be gentle with her instead of the one that fears for her. Hopes that he won’t see how she practically devours honey cakes, dried meats and soups but leaves her delicate leaves and rich berries on her plate.

(She’s not supposed to think -)

He threads their arms together, pressing them elbow within elbow, and says, “She was much worse when we were expecting you.”

Emma snorts. “I want to say I find that unlikely but it is mom, so...”

Her father sighs, leading her towards the opposite door to where her mother disappeared. She’s not the only one avoiding her, it seems.

“You have to understand that at the time, Regina’s threat was so great and we were both so scared that -”

Emma shuts her mouth, her eyes leading her back around down the path her mother left even as her father leads her down the other hall, winding his way towards the aviary.

She gets it, gets his path, gets his intent -

“I get it,” Emma says, just to be clear.

He chuckles very lightly and says, “Anything could’ve happened, but you saved us.”

Emma snorts again. “You _really_ need to stop saying that one.”

He tugs her closer and he has a few inches on her but still he manages to press them cheek to cheek, squishing her face against his.  “My little savior.”

Emma pulls away. “She tried to rip out my heart and couldn’t, that -”

Doesn’t make me special is what she’s about to say until she thinks about it a moment.

Well it _does_ make her special.

But _still_.

(She’s whining, she knows, but it’s all in a day’s work.)

(Month.)

(It’s been -)

(She’s not supposed to think about that, about the ache in her chest, the way the quiet makes her think of the roar of waves in a storm, the bustle of their ship,  and _oh_ , Hawke’s curses, Henry always asking questions and Victor’s sharp remarks, and Killian, his thumb stroking over her neck, his hands held in hers, his smile - Henry’s smile, Victor’s smile, the people that smiled at her and didn’t know, could never know how much it made her heart lift.)

“Emma?”

“Sorry I was just thinking,” she says.

“Share with me?”

She clears her throat, smiling at her father. With a light shrug, she says, “Okay, it does make me special, but I’m not a savior.”

She knows that he senses she isn’t saying everything, but he goes on - he’s the gentle father today and she loves him all the more for it, aches all the more for it because he’s gentle and she’s hiding herself away from him the way she never has before, used to curl up beside him and tell him all about the adventures she was going to have -

Emma’s not supposed to think about that, but she can’t help it. She bites down on it as best she can.

“Do you want to know why we call you that?” he asks.

“Because survivor isn’t really a nickname you give a child?” she manages to say.

Her father gives her a look, a slight pout to his lips that screams, ‘be serious, Emma.’

You know, she’s been serious all this time. She thought this conversation was supposed to ease that, but what does she know anyway?

“It has nothing to do with your uncrushable heart, Emma, but with how the first time we laid eyes on you, we just knew.”

“Knew what?” Emma asks, curious.

She’s never heard this one before.

He smiles. “That we were going to win. You gave us that hope. You saved us from despair. Saved all of us, even.” He leans into her whispering like there are any people within earshot at all (birds are not people; she swears he’s been spending far too much time with her mother). “Grumpy’s smile was real the first time he held you.”

Okay, yeah, that _is_ whisper worthy.

Grumpy would never ever let her hear the end of it if they mentioned that.

“You’re being too unkind to Grumpy,” Emma says.

“You’re being too unkind to yourself,” her father says. He pauses in their steps, just within the doorway leading them outside and to the path ending at the lake. Unthreading their arms, he steps in front of her and places his hands on her shoulders.

She breathes tightly at the soft expression on his face, the understanding in his brow.

She looked like him, as Emmet.

But she’s not -

“I rather miss the water, you know and its calm. Perhaps a boat ride will do you some good.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees.

She misses the water, too.

Her father tugs her in, wrapping her in a quick hug before he says, “I have to go find your mother. We’re supposed to be finishing the final touches for Queen Elsa’s arrival, and she’s been so invested in it. She’ll need some calming before the day is through.”

Emma laughs. “Bet you can’t wait ‘til she gets here.”

“Bet you better be off before I tell your mother you’ve volunteered your help,” he replies.

Emma skirts by him and says, “I’m gone.”

She takes quick steps down the path, at first, only to slow as the lake comes into sight, the calm of the water so different than what she’s grown accustomed to.

So different than the way her heart beats its motion about her chest, an unruly rhythm as she thinks of the rolling of waves, the rocking of the Jolly, smiles and laughter and all those things her mother, father’s and Red’s company cannot replace.

She’s not supposed to think about that, but holding it back has only brought her to this point where she feels a bit like crying as she sees the white of wings.

Her neck feels a bit bare, her heart even more so.

The birds scatter as Emma approaches their lake. As territorial as the swans usually are, today they move for her, watching her with quiet reserve from the opposite end of the pool of clear water.

The carefully placed rocks around the edge tumble in when Emma hastily tries to sit down - and it feels like one more mistake, the one to knock her whole house of cards as far down as the shining rocks fall. The pool doesn’t look deep but if she took a dive in it, she’d lose her breath long before she hit bottom.

Emma feels like she’s drowning already, but it isn’t a melodramatic ‘I might as well _actually_ drown’ flight of melancholia that has her kicking off her shoes and throwing her skirts over her head. She misses the water, and if this as close to it as she’s going to get when her parents have Roland watching her like a Hawke (pun completely intended, and completely regretted when it just reminds of her all that she’s left behind) - if this is as close as she can get, then she’s going to take it.

She leaves her heavy dress lying on the shore. Chilled already, she shivers as she sets up the canoe. She’ll be fine once she has the oars beneath her, but for now she’s just cold.

(But Emma's used to that after all.)

She pushes off from the shore and is rowing across the lake before Roland's shout reaches her. Emma only drops oar for a moment to wave at him. It’s a lake - she can't exactly go anywhere that he won’t find her, and she can swim. There's nothing to worry about whatsoever.

 _Calm down, Roland,_ she waves. _Your job is not in jeopardy._

Besides her father set her on this course. She can’t very well be chastised for following his suggestion. Birds flit by overhead as Emma rows. Coming to a rest in the middle of the lake and allowing the canoe to float itself across the water, Emma lies back along the wooden base so she can stare up at them.

She names them in her head, follows along to their songs about sunshine and flight, about the rise of the sun in the east, and how it’ll set in the west, about their homes of earth and twig and their confusion at the birds that make their home on the sea. Emma shares in that confusion as well - torn between how much she loves the way her feet feel when she leaves them bare on her rug, and how she misses stumbling to the staccato rhythm of an approaching sea storm.

The birds fly by overhead, but none pay her mind, too busy in their own thoughts to worry about hers. She thinks her thoughts heavy, leaving her practically fused to her spot within the canoe, but when a flash of red comes down _to_ her, Emma jolts up almost immediately.

The phoenix - and it is a goddamn phoenix (apparently the bird collection has grown into the mystical) - isn’t heavy, so when it settles down on the canoe’s stern, it only rocks a little, just enough to make Emma shift her weight backward to balance it out.

It looks like it’s about to die, and to be honest, it makes her wary, as does its mysterious origin. She’s used to random birds showing up at the castle, but usually they show up in the aviary, not on the prow of her canoe.

“Did you want something?” she asks the bird on a whisper that is unintentional.

Except she’s scared for the answer, for the way it seems an omen almost, a bird on the verge of death staring her down with gold eyes that seem to know. It stares at her, no response from its mouth, not a caw, not even a lifting of its wings in acknowledgement that she spoke.

Emma’s able to translate, still.

_Did you want something?_

Well, Emma wants a lot of things but of course, the only thing pressing on her mind is a tattoo.

Killian's tattoo, of course, obviously, who else?

Who else but him?

_Who else?_

(Who, who, who; it’s not an owl, Emma.)

Finally, the phoenix makes a move. She jumps back slightly when it hops down from the stern, worried that it might collapse from even that movement, but it makes creeping steps towards her. It seems tired, but still it goes on, and when it is close enough for her to touch, it stretches out its neck for her.

Emma touches the fragile feathers, careful and gentle. It’s warmer than any other bird she’s ever touched, her hands warming, no longer feeling so iced over on the fires of its inner hearth.

She hasn’t felt this warm in a month.

“You were sent to me for a reason,” she decides aloud.

Of course, that’s when the phoenix decides to speak, one simple word.

_Emmet._

Emma jerks back. Mystical, her ass, this bird is all trouble.

Eyeing her sadly, its eye wet rimmed, it makes another cawing noise.

_Emmet. Emmet. Emmet._

“Alright, I get it. You _were_ sent to me for a reason.”

A reason she should ignore, and yet she reaches out again to pet the bird’s neck and smiles. It leans into the touch and they soak in each other’s heat.

“Now, should I send you back?” she asks aloud.

The phoenix caws again, butting its head against Emma’s chest.

 _Emmet,_ it says. _Emmet, Emmet, Emmet._

(Send it back it is.)


	15. OP#5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of my favourite chapters that I've written for this fic so I really, truly hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always thank you to each and every one of you that reads, kudos, and comments on this fic, and a special thanks to Sandy for always putting up with my writing woes.

It’s easy to make a decision when you have a dying bird in your arms and you can think only of the way your heart alights at the thought of seeing _them_ once again.

It’s a little harder when you take a step back only to see that the bird is _truly_ dying in your arms, and you can’t possibly send it back even if it wasn’t quite literally dying. In your arms.

Emma draws back as it heaves another suffering breath. Its feathers are starting to fall away from its body and Emma knows enough about phoenixes to put her arms back on the oars and start hastily rowing to shore because once that bird finally collapses, it’s going to take the boat down. Better to let it set itself aflame on shore and burn the grass than leave her and the phoenix itself a soaking mess.

She isn’t sure phoenixes can swim anyway or whether water is their fatal weakness.

(Just like it is hers.)

The phoenix coughs, a hacking thing that makes Emma push that much harder. She hits shore with a bump and roll of the boat, enough to make its boards creak painfully. She’ll have to attend to that probable damage at another time. Roland’s looking at her with curious eyes, and Roland’s curiosity will be the end of her, she’s sure. She doesn’t know him all that well since his “escape from the forest” as he called it once with an inviting twinkle in his eyes and a boyish smile on his face. Apparently his mother and her mother are old friends, which is supposed to make Emma and Roland fall together like long lost mates, but Roland’s -

“Is that a phoenix?” Roland asks, practically hopping on his feet in eagerness.

“Yes,” Emma says.

He throws his hand in the air and Emma aches at that; Henry would do that, too.

Emma left all her lists behind, but she’s starting another one in her head reading, “Weaknesses: water and fists pumping in the sky.”  As surely as the other lists grew, this one will as well.

Surely.

“That’s fantastic!” he exclaims.

His gaze becomes more careful, and Emma sees his father in his eyes, which is a compliment, or would be if it wasn’t the look that she saw Robin make the target before he sent his arrow flying through it in an attempt to beat her mother at archery; there were no winners that day, to be clear. “You can’t call defeating a pregnant woman a win, especially for a first time victory,” after all.

(It’s weird, the thoughts that float through your head when you’re holding a dying bird in your arms.)

Emma carefully sets the phoenix down on its own two claws and stays bent over it, looking up at Roland.

“Wait, is it dying?” Roland asks.

“Yes,” Emma confirms.

There’s no punching the sky this time, just a quiet, “Not as fantastic.”

Emma sighs. Roland’s _nice_ , and Emma could really like him. She could be friends with him. It’s a thought she didn’t used to have before _them_ \- and that’s the issue, that she looks at him and thinks only of them. It isn’t fair to sit by his side and wish she were sitting by someone else’s instead.

“Hey, Emma,” he says. He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to remember something and then his mouth shoots down in a frown, “Sorry, your majesty -” He frowns again and lifts a brow, “Emma?”

“Emma,” she agrees.

(It shouldn’t make her ache to say that, to call herself by her own name, not Emmet, not Anna, _Emma_ , but it does.)

(Weaknesses: water, fist pumps, and her name.)

Roland bends down beside her and carefully places his hand on the phoenix’s back. He smiles at her, dimpled cheeks flooding with happiness as he strokes over its tired and quite probably aching form. She hopes his smile is at least somewhat of a comfort for the bird.

“Alright, Emma,” he says. Emma blinks. It’s usually harder to convince people to call her anything else besides her status. At least, when they already know who she is. “Can I watch?”

“Watch it die?” Emma asks.

Roland reddens. “No, I mean, watch it be reborn?”

“Oh,” Emma says, reddening herself at her own stupid question.

She plops down on the ground. The phoenix takes unsteady steps away from her and further into the outstretched hand of Roland, who seats himself on the ground with just as little care as Emma. She finds herself turning into him, smiling slightly.

The bird caws lightly, the sound a warning. Emma lets it step further away, throwing out her hand when Roland goes to scoot closer, dragging his hand back from the phoenix.

“It’s about to burst, I think,” Emma explains - not quite an explanation when she has no idea how it goes through its rebirth. Does it even burst? Does it just disappear in a poof of smoke and flame? She knows there’s fire but beyond that?

Well, she’ll find out soon enough.

“Think we should make a wish?”

The question is so absurd that Emma can’t help but stare, a giggle slipping free. “It’s not a shooting star, Roland,” Emma answers.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s stupid.”

They fall quiet again and she freezes up as the phoenix starts to smoke, dark furls of it seeking the sky, floating higher and thicker. It looks almost black for a moment and Emma is caught by the remembered feeling of Killian’s tattoo beneath her fingers, inked over more times than she knows (she could’ve asked him, _couldn’t_ have asked, should never have asked for any of this feeling swelling in her chest).

The phoenix makes a noise as it bursts into blue and white flame that Emma easily understands: _Emmet_.

When the smoke clears and the flames die out from white to blue to yellow and red to nothing at all, a hairless bird lies before them, its skin an inflamed red. It looks almost like a vulture if vulture eyes weren’t colored by death but by the warmth of life instead. Roland moves first, quickly stripping himself of his shirt, saying, “It’s too cold for a baby bird out here. Even one that doesn’t die.”

He’s so careful with the bird and Emma inches close enough to offer out her own hands for him to place the baby phoenix in. Roland does, smiling at her.

“You know this is pretty improper, right?” Emma nods at his shirt bundled around the bird in her arms and pointedly does not look at his bare chest.

(Not because it’s improper but because, well...)

Roland laughs, and says, “Blame it on my forest dwelling. And didn’t you run away with pirates?”

(She’s too human for this, and hey, wouldn’t it be nice to be reborn as a bird and not have to worry about shirtless forest dwelling knights in training, mysterious phoenixes, and pirates?)

Emma ignores the question (for both their sake, definitely, not just hers, _definitely_ ) and asks, “So...what was your wish?”

Roland reddens again. Quickly, he throws back, “What was yours?”

She doesn’t answer because she didn’t make one.

_Because_ her wish just dissolved in a puff of feathers and smoke, and perhaps the bird wasn’t sent her way at all, perhaps she imagined that it was. Emma made a wish but shooting stars are hard to come by, especially in the daylight hours and the sun is still high enough in the sky that maybe it was a trick of its light that had her believing that the bird said Emmet’s name.

She _really_ wouldn’t put it past Apollo to grant her wish, the one she didn’t make except in yearning thoughts of the sea, and a man with eyes as blue as its depths.

“I wished for Queen Elsa to get here sooner,” Roland says finally.

It’s a good distraction, and Emma latches onto it hungrily, looking to him while she asks, “Why?”

“Ice cream,” Roland says.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t know, but she can make it and it’s all the kitchen’s been talking about for weeks,” Roland says. “That and…”

“Me,” Emma guesses.

He tilts his head sympathetically. “They missed you.”

“I missed them, too,” Emma says.

“Liar,” Roland accuses.

She is lying, but it’s not in the way he assumes as he goes on about Mistress Helena and the kitchen staff who gossip about how glad she probably was to be free of them.

She _is_ lying.

(She missed them, but she _misses_ them, too.)

The bird caws in her arms, but this time they are words she does not understand.

-

“It’s a phoenix!”

Her mother’s excitement is almost catching, but it seems to pass over Emma and hit Red instead which is par for the course lately. She doesn’t begrudge Red her mother’s boundless affections, but damn does she miss them in moments like this when the celebration of the phoenix’s rebirth feels more like a mourning.

“Will you teach me how to speak to them?” Red asks.

She turns to Emma at this, and Emma shakes her head, a sudden sharp pain in her chest taking her by surprise.

“Can’t speak yet,” she explains. “It’s just a baby.”

“How many lives do you think it’s had?” Red asks just as eagerly as before.

Perhaps as many as she has. Emmet Swan, Anna, Emma. Perhaps it shares those memories from its past lives but can’t reconcile them with its current. Perhaps that’s why it looks at her so sad and she moves to her mother to have it curl up in her safe embrace instead of her own shaking limbs.

Only, her mother passes the phoenix onto Red, leaving her hazel gaze steady on Emma’s as she says, “Phoenix’s grow slow for birds. It’ll take it a few months from now until it starts speaking. But we can train your mind and your voice to speak its language before then. Maybe you’ll end up teaching it a few words.”

“If Emma’s teaching me, most definitely,” Red says with a wink and an elbow at Emma’s side.

It _almost_ makes her laugh, Red’s casual nod to Emma’s inability to speak with a refined tongue lately. She cursed the stone she nearly tripped over as she walked into the aviary with shirtless Roland in tow, the only thing stopping her Red’s look from Roland’s bare chest to Emma’s face with something that far exceeded curiosity and went into downright suspicious until she noticed the phoenix.

If anything, that bird is a wonderful distraction if one that distracts everyone but her.

Everyone but her and her mother who Emma tries to excuse herself from with a nod and a, “I’m going to help Dad.”

Her mother only shakes her head and says, “You don’t even know where he’s hiding, and neither do I. So we’ll search him out together.”

“I’m not leaving the phoenix to hunt down a wayward king,” Red says.

“Of course not,” Emma says, attempting to echo Red’s easy humor.

Emma keeps up the smile as Red says, “I’ll be here with Roland, who’s going to put his shirt on sometime soon, right?”

“Sometime soon,” Roland confirms with just enough innocence that it could be mistaken for seriousness.

Red rolls her eyes anyway and says, “Okay, George of the Jungle.”

Red never got to that story in Tales of an Adventurer, and Emma’s - the thought of the book hurts.

“Roland of the Enchanted Forest,” he corrects, drawing Red’s laughter, her head thrown back in happiness while Emma stares at the color in Red’s cheeks to match her namesake and thinks of how Roland of the Enchanted Forest would fit right in with all the other tales in the book.

Red’s would, too, right next to Victor’s, maybe? Or after Ursula’s. Or better, fill the empty pages in the back with her tales.

Snow takes Emma’s hand, drawing her gaze again. For a second, Emma can’t look at her mother. Still, Emma allows Snow to guide her out of the room to the music of Roland and Red’s easy rejoinders.

Emma notices - how could she not - the way her mother keeps her hand held over her belly as she walks as if the bump will suddenly break free should she not keep a tight enough grip on it.

Apparently, that’s something her mother truly has to worry about given Emma’s own proven penchant for abandoning home.

(It was just the once, she knows, but it feels like twice, when she took her leave from the castle and when she came back.)

She knows her mother’s building up to something when she starts, “I didn’t think we would get the phoenix so soon. You know how Sir Geoffrey is with his birds. He takes great care of them, and when he told me that it would be reborn soon, I just assumed he’d send it after it had grown up some, enough to make the journey for certain.”

Emma nods, can’t think of a way to stop the roll of Snow’s words when she can’t stop the ones bouncing off the inside of her head.

She never put her full dress back on and it’s probably still lying at the edge of the lake, and her mother hasn’t said a word about it, just how all she did was hug Emma when she ran back into the castle, didn’t comment on her less than royal clothes, just on the state of Emma’s smile.

(It was too small, then, right, but Emma had felt so very small back inside those high castle walls. She always felt so much bigger on a ship in the middle of the sea and on the Jolly Roger, she just felt…)

“Perhaps he wanted to get it here before Elsa’s arrival,” Snow muses.

“Yeah,” Emma says, acknowledging her with words this time.

She would never call her mother sharp - in the sense that her arrows always find their mark, but her chin is as soft and dimpled as Emma’s and her smile is lighter than what filters through the open windows and falls like a crown upon her head.

And she’s been hard with Emma, but never sharp, never cutting through Emma’s defenses the way she does now when she says, “I know you’ve been upset lately.”

“I’ve been fine,” Emma says with a shrug.

Her mother fixes her with her gaze, pausing in her steps so Emma is forced to stop and consider her lie as well. It’s a bad one, all things considered, like the fact that she can’t help but pout as her mother takes her hand and says, “Red and I have noticed.”

Snow laughs at Emma’s expression and says, “Emma, honey, I’m sorry if you think I’m stealing your friend.”

“I don’t think you are,” Emma says.

“She’s not stealing me either,” Snow explains.

“Yeah, that’s really not something I think she’d do,” Emma says.

Snow pouts this time. After a moment she heaves a sigh and squeezes at Emma’s hand, “I know how tough it was for you to leave them behind.”

“It wasn’t so hard. They didn’t put up a fight,” Emma jokes that last part but swallows afterwards, the joke tasting sour.

“I’m not sure you would’ve given them much chance to. Despite what _others_ may whisper about you loud enough that I hear it when I pass by the kitchens -”

“Mistress Helena,” Emma mutters.

“- You aren’t always rearing for a battle.”

“Are you saying that I’m actually as skilled at diplomacy as you want me to be?”

“We’ll see after you apologize to Frederick, Abigail and Midas,” Snow says.

Emma winces, the pain right there in her chest. Her mother merely draws her in closer, the way she did when Emma would share her secrets with her - where she hid Mistress Helena’s room keys, just how she got her dress so dirty, _why_ Dad was sneaking away to the kitchens in the middle of the night.

Emma’s mouth closes around the thought of sharing any of the ones she has now. Her throat feels dry with words she just can’t say.

“What I’m saying -” Her mother shakes her head and smiles tenderly. “What I’m asking is would they have put up a fight if you’d let them?”

She remembers her mother being so afraid that Emma would rather be on her own so clearly - “You’re so good at being on your own, Emma, that I’m afraid that’s where you’ll want to stay” - that it strikes a note of discord in her chest to hear her mother’s question.

_Would they have put up a fight if she’d let them?_

She supposes she already knows the answer to that because she’s here, missing them instead of right there beside them.

“Why does it matter?” Emma says in reply.

Her mother smile fades, instead her expression almost sorrowful. With her free hand, the one she’s been keeping on her belly, she pushes an errant strand of hair out of Emma’s face before cupping her cheek gently.

“Because it matters to you. You miss them, Emma. Don’t deny it.”

Emma shakes her head, and she’s the little girl she was once who always listened to her mother’s directives while her father got the brunt of her disobedience. She doesn’t deny Snow’s words, just shakes her head again and says, “You get used to things being a certain way, I guess. If I can get used to being on sea all day, I can get used to this again.”

Her words are both a plea and a promise - she’ll get over this, she swears, just please don’t ask, don’t push, don’t -

Hug her the way her mother does, pulling her hand from Emma’s face to wrap around her back so she can clutch Emma tightly to her form.

Emma doesn’t cry, but it is a close thing until there’s a bump against her stomach, faint enough that she almost imagines it, but her imagination has run wild enough today that she trusts that it has worn itself out on phoenix’s whispering false names.

“I think I felt him kick,” Emma says as she draws back from her mother.

Snow winces. “You’re telling me, boy, I think I felt it, too. He’s a bit heavier footed than you were. Did I ever tell you…?” Snow trails off, looking at Emma’s face. “Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll tell you?”

Emma nods, a promise, a plea.

Tomorrow she’ll be better.

She hopes.

She _wishes_.

-

Emma awakes in her room the next morning to find the floor warm with a fire she knows she didn’t set the night before. Nesting within the flames in her hearth is the baby phoenix. It practically swims in the heat, almost swanning about, even.

She groans and knocks on the adjoining door to her room to hear Red’s voice - and Roland’s, too. She leaves the phoenix bathing in the flames and opens the door to Red’s room. Emma might have to reconsider locking her door if she’s going to be finding random birds floating about her room.

(Especially if she’s going to have to wake up needing to forget only to be reminded by a baby phoenix’s caw.)

It’s early, but Red’s already dressed and it’s only Emma and Roland still in their night clothes, which is confusing considering Roland’s rooms are far away and forest dweller or not, he at least changes his clothes before he leaves his room.

Red brightens when Emma steps into her view. “Emma, good! You’re awake! I was just telling Roland about ice cream.”

“Ice cream,” Emma deadpans.

“Ice cream is only the greatest thing since coffee,” Red explains.

Enraptured, Roland stares at her. Emma sees beyond Red’s bright smile and the nod of her head. She’s making _eyes_ at Emma, and Emma understands the intent. Her brother might be heavy footed, but that’s only to make up for how heavy-handed her mother can be. It’s a comfort that Red _wants_ to comfort her, but the phoenix in her hearth only makes her think of Killian and that’s exactly what she didn’t want to wake up this morning thinking of. She didn’t want to start her day aching for people she’s not going to see.

She wanted to _forget_ , only she can remember tracing her fingers over his skin and wanting to touch more than the surface -

Emma didn’t want to start the day this way, so, she isn’t.

She digs her nails into her palms as she curls her hands into fists and thinks of nothing at all, but that lasts only as long as it takes for her to notice just how warm it’s getting in Red’s room. Emma turns around quickly, chasing the heat back through the door into her room.

“Emma!”

She isn’t sure who calls after her, but she keeps moving towards the flames and the black smoke curling out of her room.

Black like wings inked on his arm and -

She searches through the smoke with her hands held before her, trying to make her way towards the hearth. There isn’t much in her room that she’d feel too badly about losing to flames but she isn’t going to leave the bird alone in the dark.

“Phoenix!” she calls out, a fleeting thought of ‘I should’ve named him,’ taking her.

“Name’s Alistair!” Roland calls out.

“You named it?” Emma calls back.

_Alistair_ answers with a plaintive caw.

The smoke starts to get into her lungs as she huffs. The bird was sent for _her_ and she didn’t even get to name him and it stings like the smoke in her eyes. It stings, but she calls out, “Alistair,” and follows the sound of the cooing with one hand pulling her night shirt over her mouth and nose, the other reaching out -

“Emma, you’re heading towards the flames!”

It’s a cooling thought.

It’s a cooling feeling as the outer door to her room bursts open and the first bucket of water hits her. Someone throws open her windows and the smoke finds its way out.

Another bucket of water hits her on its way to the hearth, but Emma’s still struggling to breathe and still struggling towards the phoenix in the now cooled hearth, so she doesn’t have the energy to struggle against the cold water.

She finds this when she bends to the cooled fireplace: phoenix weaknesses: Not Water.

Still, Emma gathers Alistair up in her arms and tries not to be annoyed at him as she shivers and coughs.

“What the hell happened?”

Her father envelops her up long before she can tell him not to, crushing the bird between her and his body. Alistair squawks, but even without language his meaning is clear. Emma echoes the sentiment with a groan.

David doesn’t move.

“I don’t know,” Emma finally answers.

She really doesn’t. When she left her room, the flames were light, almost dying in the hearth. There was nothing to create the smoke and flame that she found when she returned.

“There’s only one thing for it,” Grumpy announces gruffly from somewhere beyond her father’s clutch.

“Magic?” Emma ventures.

Grumpy’s been calling that of all the odd happenings around the castle since before she could spell the word. He’s been right, mostly, they have village wizards and city witches in and out all the times, and the kitchen staff borrows a spell here and there, but there’s never been anything like this. A broom dancing of its own accord? Magic. This, Emma doesn’t want to consider such.

The thought seems to sit uneasily with her father as well because he says, “If it’s magic, we’ll find the source.”

“If it’s me just leaving the flames burning too high?” Red says, quietly, timidly.

David releases Emma at that, which is great because the phoenix was probably about to go through another rebirth within his arms. Emma turns to Red and says, “It’s not your fault. It was fine when I left the room. Maybe it’s the phoenix’s magic?”

“Phoenix magic _is_ mostly unknown,” David agrees.

Grumpy sniffs, “So we’re going to blame the bird?”

“Should we blame a person?” Roland asks.

Now, Emma can actually see Grumpy’s death glare. Roland’s lucky he doesn’t have his trusty pickaxe in hand. Blaming a person is the least of his worries when maiming a person is on the list.

 “Well, no,” Grumpy says.

“We won’t decide anything until we know for certain.” David turns back to her. “Emma, you’re soaked. You can get dressed in Red’s room and we’ll clean up the mess in here.”

“I’ll help,” Emma says.

David smiles nervously. “You’ll help your mother? That’s great.”

“That’s not what I said at all, but alright,” Emma says, nodding helplessly. “I’ll help Mom do the last of the welcome preparations.”

“You’re a wonderful daughter,” David says. He smiles less nervously, and more _annoyingly_ as he adds, “A precious gift.”

“Alistair and I are freezing,” Emma says, turning away from him with a smile that she doesn’t try to hide.

Red helps her gather her things, apologizing so profusely that Emma eventually says, “If you apologize anymore I swear I’m throwing you to the wolves.”

“Ha-ha, funny, good joke, _Princess_ ,” Red says.

She considers Emma thoughtfully and slowly says, “So do you think it was magic?”

“I think it was…”  
  
Emma doesn’t really want to think of what it was, because she was thinking of the flames burning on that pale green sea and suddenly they were burning up her room.

Correlation is not causation and Emma’s refusing to think of him, right? She’s not thinking anymore.

“Emma?”

“I think it was divine intervention,” Emma says. She looks to the open window and the sun burning in the sky. It seems to brighten for a moment, so Apollo’s definitely still waiting for her to cash in on that favor.

“Intervening how?”

“You shouldn’t talk about dessert before I’ve even had my breakfast,” Emma says.

Red groans.

-

It’s a sentiment Emma ends up echoing by the time the afternoon rolls about. Apparently, she’s not meant to be a welcoming host considering the way her mother pushes her past the point of wanting to be welcoming and towards the precipice of wanting Elsa not to come at all.

She really doesn’t know how her mother manages all these people on her own most of the time. Emma’s grown up the same way her mother did, but she’s cut from a shepherd’s cloth. All she wants to do is tend to her flock (read: hide out in the stables) and let everything else handle itself. She doesn’t want to be the one plucking the quills for signing important documents from the peacock’s back.

“This won’t break you, Emma,” Red assures her as Emma huffs angrily. “If walking through the Enchanted Forest with me, your resident wolf girl, doesn’t shake you, this won’t either.”

“You didn’t smell like bird,” Emma groans.

Red laughs. “Neither did you. You smelled like lemon and cologne, actually. Something like -”

Red doesn’t finish the thought because she falls over, her seat breaking out from underneath her. Emma’s not heartless enough to _just_ laugh. Instead she uses the distraction to pluck four quills from the peacock’s back in quick succession before she runs over to help her Red lift herself off the floor.

“Your wolf senses didn’t catch that?” Emma ask.

“My wolf senses are going haywire…” Red clutches at her forehead like she’s in pain although Emma only saw her knees hit the floor. “What in the world?”

Emma shrugs. “Maybe aftereffects of the fire on your senses?”

“Hours later? That bypasses delayed reaction and goes straight into the magical…”

“Don’t say that,” Emma says hastily. Red looks at her with confusion and Emma somehow manages a smile when she explains, “You’ll summon _him_.”

“Your mother did say to keep Grumpy away from the birds,” Red says. She keeps rubbing at her forehead, the feeling seeming to be passing because she soon drops her hand and offers it to Emma. “Speaking of, let’s go find her.”

-

Red leaves her at the door to Emma’s former nursery, claiming “delayed reaction” and disappearing down the hall before Emma can argue otherwise. Her wolf senses may be going wild, but her wolf speed still seems to be on point.

(It figures.)

It _figures_ that this is where Emma would find Snow, her hand on the bar of Emma’s cradle, her gaze lifted towards the open window.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” her mother asks.

No need to ask who, but - “Like what?”

“This?”

Emma knows what she’s asking. Do you think he’ll want to run away, too?

_No_ , Emma wants to say, but she can’t lie to her mother, not really. She can only deflect from the truth, which she does with a simple, “I liked the unicorns. I’m sure he will, too.”

“You just don’t want to have to commission a new mobile with me,” her mother pouts.

“It’s a bit of both, actually,” Emma says.

That’s as close to the truth as Emma can come to, and her mother nods with sad eyes. _It’s a bit of both_ , his life can go either way, the way Emma’s did, but now it’s back on the right path. She’s back where she belongs.

(She is.)

It’s only as she’s going to sleep that she realizes that she got her wish. She didn’t think of them once. She told herself that she wouldn’t forget them even if she tried, but try and try until you succeed, it seems.

(She didn’t think of them once.)

( _Delayed reaction_? Sounds like something Victor would say.)

(And Henry...he’d like the unicorns.)

-

Emma realizes she’s nervous about ten minutes too late because she’s already waiting in the entrance hall for Elsa to stroll in.

(Do Queens stroll? Her mother doesn’t, not really.)

There’s no chance to back out now, the corset is already crushing her spleen and Red would catch her if she tried to run.

(Wolf speed coming in handy yet again.)

The doors to the castle open all of their own accord, blown open actually, and she sees the white braid whipping in the vicious wind before she sees Elsa’s face.

She’s seen the Queen in portraits but she looks softer up close. There’s less of a blue tinge to her skin, for one. She’ll leave that one error up to artistic license. The others? The one where Elsa’s nose isn’t nearly as big and her smile isn’t nearly as cold, that one she’ll decry. If they can get Emma’s scowl right, they can get Elsa’s smile right.

Emma’s nervous _and_ bi, this can only end with casualties.

“Welcome,” her mother says, saving Emma from making the first greeting. Emma inhales, exhales, keeps the process going while Elsa comments about the warm weather - Ice Queen indeed - and her mother introduces Emma -

Who’s currently _still_ exhaling and inhaling and probably fucking up the process as she stumbles forward at Red’s probably-meant-to-be-gentle push and says, “Hi.”

Elsa lifts an eyebrow, looking confused, and says, “Hello, Princess Emma. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Emma extends her hand and Elsa wavers for a moment, her smile slipping just a bit. She seems to get a hold of herself a second later while she gets a hold of Emma’s hand. Her palm is surprisingly warm.

Emma’s grip is unsurprisingly tight.

“Sorry,” she says when she crushes Elsa’s more delicate hand.

Elsa looks at her strangely again, which Emma doesn’t blame her for. She feels _strange_ , like she’s missing something.

“How was your journey?” Emma asks because that’s the polite, decorous thing to do, not trying to figure out what the hell is going on with her besides the fact that she thinks Elsa is beautiful and is having trouble dealing with said fact.

“It was lovely. In fact, I bypassed Emperor Kuzco’s ship on the way.” Elsa laughs at the memory, shaking her head. “At first I thought he was serious when he told me that he was accosted and ransacked by pirates, but his friend, Pacha, he explained that they were accosted by and _nearly_ ransacked by pirates, only those pirates saved their lives instead.”

“Pirates saved their lives?” Emma asks.

Strange doesn’t encapsulate how she feels _now._

Strange could describe the way Elsa tells the story of the boy with the book that he wanted them to translate, with wonder in her tone as if she couldn’t imagine something so fantastical.

(She can make ice cream, Emma remembers vaguely.)

(That’s fairly fantastical, right?)

The entrance doors slam open again and the wind throws itself against the closed windows hard enough to crack the glass and send its shattered pieces sailing down towards them. Emma lifts her arms, instinctively stepping before her mother and Red, only a second wind comes in, stronger and colder than the first and blows the pieces out of the way to fall harmlessly to the ground in a neat pile in the corner, easily swept up by dancing brooms.

(That’s fairly fantastical, too.)

Elsa’s breaths are loud and labored and she stands poised for another attack, her hands splayed out protectively before her, directed towards the doors and the wind.

In the quiet that follows as Emma and Red look to her mother, making sure she’s okay, Elsa says in a muted tone, “May I ask…” Elsa trails off. With a long inhale, she exhales, “Is there someone with magic here?”

“Don’t say that, you’ll summon _him_ ,” Red says.

Emma breathes out, a trembling laugh escaping her, staring into Elsa’s worried blue eyes.

“Summon _him_? A wizard?” Elsa asks.

“No, it’s just Grumpy, my friend,” her mother says.

“He’s a wizard?”

“A dwarf,” Emma says.

“So, who has magic?” Elsa looks between their faces and says. “Oh. You don’t know.”

“My head is killing me,” Red says.

Elsa stiffens at that. “Then…”

“I don’t think changing into a wolf during the full moon is the kind of magic you’re looking for,” Red explains before Elsa can make the assumption.

Elsa looks to Emma, then, and Emma shifts uncomfortably. She’s not an idiot, she recognizes that these things keep happening around her but she’s only been able to struggle through learning the language of birds. Magic would’ve manifested itself a long time ago if she had it.

(But that was before -)

The door swings open again, slowly this time, but it’s enough.

Emma runs.

-

She isn’t running away for an adventure. She’s running away from her problems. There’s a big difference there that she’d like to point out before anyone else can. Namely, the people calling after her as she moves swiftly from hall to hall, skirting her way through people making final arrangements for the evening ball, past people who are no doubt going to whisper (loudly) about her flight.

(The kitchen staff never could resist a good story.)

She feels it when they give up, when she leaves through the door to the lake and near tumbles to the ground, tripping over the stone path.

She feels it when _they_ give up, but cold air swings open the doors and Elsa appears, apparently, _not_ having given up.

(It _figures_.)

“I’m magic, yes. I don’t know how to control it, yes. I don’t even understand why it’s happening to me, yes. Look conversation’s through, we don’t have to waste your time going through this.”

Elsa smiles in what’s meant to be comforting, (Emma knows this, yes, she can read expressions fairly well, _yes_ ), but it doesn’t help comfort her.

Elsa says, “I don’t think trying to help you is a waste of my time, Emma.”

“We’ve just met. Give it a little while longer and you’ll realize…”

Elsa lifts an eyebrow. “Realize what?”

“Look, I really think I should be alone right now. I’m not trying to be rude - but I don’t really have to try, do I - I’m just!” Emma turns away, groaning at the sky. The sun winks down on her and she makes sure Apollo hears her as she curses him, but even this isn’t enough to make her call in on his promised favor. She turns back to Elsa. “I haven’t been having that great of a time lately,” she admits. “I don’t want to pull you into that.”

“You say that, but the wind is pushing me in your direction,” Elsa says.

Lo and behold, it is, and Elsa’s feet are kicking up dirt that swirls around her ankles in a tumultuous fashion.

“I can’t control it!” Emma protests.

She feels her body humming now, realizes that the strange feeling isn’t just the way her head doesn’t seem to be strapped on right anymore ever since - god, she’s really starting to hate Alistair. Phoenix or not. Mystical and beautiful and _innocent_ , she was right about that bird being an omen.

“If it helps, I know what you’re feeling.”

Emma laughs harshly. She huffs, “You really, really don’t.”

“Confused? Scared?” Elsa offers.

Emma considers that. “Well, that’s part of it.”

“Part of it?” Elsa asks.

Emma’s wind has pushed her within touching distance now but she doesn’t reach out, just stands before Emma, hands rising behind her to push against Emma’s magicked wind.

“I told you I haven’t been having that great of a time lately. That’s it. I’m just...a mess,” Emma says.

It’s the easiest way to put it. Simplest. Emma’s always been good at the simple. It’s the complicated that’s been fucking her over. Is fucking her over.

Emmet, Anna, Emma...that was complicated. Adding magic on top of that? It goes beyond that now.

“Fuck,” Emma curses. And then curses inwardly at Elsa’s raised eyebrow. “See? Told you I didn’t have to try to be rude.”

“It is a bit... _different_ than what I’m used to hearing but it’s not the worst thing you could’ve said.”

“What is?”

Elsa blushes darkly. “I can’t repeat it.”

Emma laughs at that, a real laugh that takes her off guard. As does Elsa’s hand when she touches Emma’s arm, no longer holding them up to stop Emma’s wind.

“It’s your emotions, Emma. Something has changed for you and it has opened up the magic within you.”

“I figured that one out a couple of minutes ago…” Emma scrubs her hand down her face. “Elsa, I set my room on fire.”

“I froze my sister,” Elsa announces.

Emma lifts a brow at that, and to her astonishment ( _this_ is the fantastical) snowflakes start to form in the sky above Elsa’s head.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Yes, but I’m obviously not very good at this. It’s usually my sister that helps with that, but she stayed behind to rule the kingdom in my absence, and…” Elsa trails off and the snowflakes swirling over her head slide down into her hair, nestling within her braided crown and sliding down her nose, disappearing in the heat.

“Emotions,” Emma says quietly. “Embarrassment one of them?”

“Lately, it’s been 90% of them,” Elsa says.

Emma laughs at that. She recognizes the fear within her emotions, but that isn’t what’s rushing to her cheeks. Embarrassing isn’t saying “I froze my sister,” it’s standing nearly at the edge of her lake, having raced through the castle all because…

All because a phoenix made her think she might see Killian, Henry, Victor, Smee, and Hawke, all of them again.

Or perhaps, embarrassment isn’t the right word for the way her chest aches at the thought of them. Any other words for it though, they escape her.

“Those pirates Kuzco told you about...did they say where they were headed?”

“They were looking for a translation of that book. ‘Chicken scratch,’ the Emperor called it. He sent them towards the witch that tried to kill him. Apparently they were undaunted in their task.”

Elsa looks at her with sympathy.

Emma looks away.

**-**

Emma confines herself to the lake. Her self-confinement, however, gets continuously interrupted, first by Elsa who says that she’ll do anything she can to help Emma while she’s here.

It’s a friendly offer, and Elsa’s smile is warm (Ice Queen indeed) and inviting when she lays her hand on top of Emma’s. Still, Emma’s too busy cursing stupid phoenixes and stupid pirates and stupid _her_ to take her up on it.

Red comes next, yelling at Emma for messing with her wolf senses and then throwing her arms around Emma in a hug that nearly has her throwing another wind out, this time with intent behind it.

“I’m just glad that this means you’ll be okay,” Red spills into her hair.

Emma doesn’t understand how she figured that one, but a month with Red has taught her that she doesn’t need to understand, not really, she just needs to trust in Red’s words.

She feels a little bitter afterwards, because she doesn’t trust it, not when Roland shows up and says, “Does this mean you can make ice cream, too?” and she accidentally sends a pack of dirt so hard into his stomach that he goes down.

After that, her confinement is only interrupted by her father and a tray for an early dinner.

He and her mother seem to get it, at least, that she needs to be alone to consider this new development. That she’d rather be alone than risk hurting anyone the way she’s been risking it since the fire. It’s with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she’s grateful her father came instead of her mother.

(Less of a risk.)

David leaves a kiss on her forehead and calls her his “Savior,” before he goes to attend to the arrival of the guests. Emma thinks of her uncrushable heart and has to laugh.

If her heart were so uncrushable, that name wouldn’t make her want to cry.

If her heart were so uncrushable, she wouldn’t be sending the swans squawking at the edge of the lake every time she thinks of anything except the ground beneath her feet and the setting sun in her eyes.

She sighs after a long time of staring up into the now dark skies.

“It’s one way to get out of a ball,” Emma remarks into the dark.

She has to laugh again when she remembers that she’s supposed to be apologizing to Midas. One way to get out of that, too.

She bites at her lip afterwards, worrying it as she thinks of Killian - because of course it was _them_ that took Kuzco’s ship. Victor’s an excellent doctor, he probably had them healed in no time. And Henry, he wanted a book translated. Emma and Victor taught him to read and suddenly that’s all he wants to do.

Maybe he’s putting more stories in her book.

She told him to.

(Would they have put up a fight if she let them?)

She stands up from her seat and pushes away from the table and the remains of her dinner. If she’s going to reminisce, she’s going to do it on the clear blue water of the lake. As she moves, something else moves in the dark and she moves with intent, throwing her hands up and a shot of gold escapes them in the direction of the rustling movement.

She definitely just killed one of her mother’s birds.

“Oh.”

That’s not the groan of a bird. That is the groan of a man, and he repeats the sound, louder. She approaches his fallen form with hands raised. Face pressed into the grass and dirt, his black hood thrown back over his head, Emma wishes for a sword at her side as she looks at him.

Swords are comfortable. The tension thrumming in her raised hand is not.

The man’s first words are muffled but his second -

“I had no plans to harm you, Princess. Rob you, sure, but if you would lay your arms down, I would explain -”

She drops her hands and he flinches as he rolls over to face her and hears his name uttered to the night. A spell, she feels bespelled, fingers on the spinning wheel and she’s drifted right off into a dream.

“Killian,” she says again.

He lifts up off the ground, slowly, but he has no chance to stand when she tackles him back down. It wasn’t her intent, but _who_ intends to trip, after all? He catches her in his arms and despite her intent - helping him up, questioning him, explaining, _questioning_ because how the hell can he be here - how the _fuck_ -

(One look at him and her words have already lost their respectability.)

With Killian lying beneath her on the grass, his arms wrapped around her waist and her seated in his lap, the only thing she can manage is his name.

“Killian.”

It’s less embarrassing than it would be because he can only manage the same.

“Emma,” he says.

His eyes pore over her and it’s like he’s seeing her for the first time again and she’s seeing him, the blood blooming on his lip - her fault no doubt - the grass in his mussed hair, the eyebrows lifted in wonder and his eyes, so clear and blue, crinkled in a growing smile and everything she missed so much.

Her hands leave his chest of their own accord, and she strokes them down the sides of his face, to touch at the dimples in his cheeks, trace her thumbs from there to the corners of his mouth.

Emma’s going to do something stupid, she knows.

Here’s the rub, however...

She just doesn’t care.

His head draws up in time with hers tilting down, ready for her before she knows that’s what she’s doing - and then she’s kissing Killian, softly at first because it’s been so long, so long since that last kiss and maybe she made up the way his lips felt on hers, maybe she made up the heat of it, the way his kiss felt like being wanted so much –

The way _she_ wanted it so much.

But, of course, of all the things that Emma imagined, this had to be the one where the reality far exceeds the dream, where it’s instant flames, the magicked fire (or whatever the hell that gold light was) in her palms nothing to compare to his mouth, to his hands tightening on her waist, crushing her to him. Oranges to apples, fire to ice, the weight of his body beneath her to the stroke of his hand down her back - poor comparisons, useless comparisons.

_She’s_ useless.

And it’s useless, trying to keep her mouth on his, trying to keep him with her for any moment longer because he’s pulling back and even if she chases his lips, it’s only going to postpone the inevitable.

His hands remain on her waist, his head thrown back into the grass so he can stare up at her. She tastes blood on her lip. His.

“It’s amusing, I suppose,” he says. “That I came here to steal from the Princess so I could find you, and here I am stealing kisses from the Princess because she _is_ you.”

“That’s a hell of a confusing sentence,” Emma says.

(Especially the stealing kisses part; can you really steal something so readily given?)

“You’re telling me.”

She should get off of him probably, but she’s supremely comfortable right here. And he’s supremely comfortable beneath her it seems because he doesn’t move to dislodge her.

And there they are, both supremely comfortable.

“I should explain,” he says. He frowns. “But ladies first.”

“How gentlemanly of someone who came to rob me.”

He smirks and says, “Pirate, love, but you knew that.” Softer, with less teasing bite, he adds, “I never pretended otherwise.”

She did. She pretended.

She’d move, then, but he keeps looking at her and she’s rooted by that look, one she’s just touched the surface of, and gods does she want to dive deeper.

“Emma,” he breathes out like a spell. “I’ve waited a long time to say that.”

“It’s been a month,” Emma deflects.

(He recognizes her face, he knows her name, not Emmet, not Anna, _Emma_.)

“Aye, far too long, I agree.”

She laughs, skimming her hands across his cheeks again to rest at his head, tips slipping into his dark hair of their own accord. It’s much longer, the same way hers is. A bit unruly.

His smile is a bit unruly, too. It’s like he can’t control it.

Given the problems with control Emma’s had the past few days, she gets it.

“What was that by the way? The thing you hit me with?” he inquires.

“Magic.”

“Figured that one,” Killian says. “You never showed any predilection for the magical when you were with us.”

“I didn’t have any predilection for it before _you_ ,” Emma accuses.

He stares at her, and this time the look makes her want to run.

(Run away from her problems, to be clear.)

(Killian Jones is very, very clearly her problem.)

And very clearly has a problem with her intentions because his hands remain on her waist even when she pulls.

“Why didn’t you send it back? The phoenix?”

Emma’s jaw drops open of its own accord. (Note that trouble with control.) She searches his face, looking for the lie. He sent it for her. She was right. He sent it for her.

He was looking for her.

“How did you know?” Emma counters.

“Oh, Circe just sent us on a merry chase that ended in the sweetest of revelations, that our dear Emmet was in fact Princess Emma of Misthaven.”

“Circe _told_ you?”

He scoffs in exasperation. “No. Love, I knew something was off when you first joined my crew. And then you kissed me and the spell broke.”

“You asked me to!” Emma says, not sure why she’s arguing that point. Pushing past it, she says, “She gave me a spell that broke with a kiss? Of all the bullshit.”

Killian laughs but it’s a humor she recognizes even after their month apart. Self-deprecating.

“To be fair, she didn’t think I would be kissing you,” he says.

“I didn’t think you’d be kissing me.”

She swallows after that, hastily, but it isn’t fast enough to take the words back, and quicker than a flash, he leans up and slants another kiss over her lips, and as he draws back, she makes her second mistake, sighing audibly at the departure of his lips.

“Seriously?” he says.

Red in the face, she turns the question back on him, hands sliding to rest on her hips, head tilted in disbelief, “ _Seriously_?”

He grins. “Couldn’t resist. Pirate.”

“Get a new line,” Emma tells him.

“Thief just doesn’t equate. Robber is a garbage name. Nothing says pirate like pirate, love, but you know what, I think dashing rapscallion does come close.”

She laughs again and flits her gaze across his face, studying the happy crinkles around his eyes. He looks tired, though, and the blood is still dripping free of his busted lip.

“You hit your head. Twice. It’s not your fault that you’re not making sense,” Emma says.

He scoffs at that and this time when she pulls back, he allows her to pull him to his feet with her. He stands a little unsteady but she’s just as so. Probably even more so because she forgot how much taller than her he was, that she could just sink her face into his neck.

He throws his arms around her first, crushing her against his chest in a warm hug. She doesn’t think as she settles into it, pressing her nose against the bare, warm and slightly damp skin of his neck. His hands smooth up and down her back and she doesn’t imagine it when he says, “I missed you.”

She rocks backwards and he releases her to stand before him. Instead of pretending he didn’t say the words as Emma would do, as Emma’s doing by not saying them, he says, “I’m not the only one. Henry -”

Emma snaps to at that. “Henry is here? Alone?” she questions.

Killian tilts his head in confusion, explaining slowly, “He went to look for you.”

“I have to go get him,” Emma says, spins around in a rush that leaves her skirts flying about her. She draws him aside and says, “Stay here.”

“I’m not letting you run off without me,” Killian says, following her as she stomps towards the castle.

She doesn’t quite stop, sliding around to face him as she challenges, “Where am I possibly going to go?”

“You? You could go anywhere. You’re a princess, after all,” Killian says.

She frowns, not realizing she should’ve taken the moment to brace herself before he dips his head to kiss her again.

“You keeping doing that is not going to solve anything,” Emma says.

“As I wasn’t trying to, I don’t see what the problem is here.”

(The problem?)

(The problem is _him_.)

“The problem is before my whole magic,” She throws her hands up in the air, giving up on searching for the word. “Thing, I was supposed to host this ball for the neighboring kingdoms in honor of our visit from Queen Elsa. Neighboring kingdoms meaning Midas, meaning the family I stole from with you and have to apologize to. Meaning they are here and Henry is wandering about on his own and I am not having him get accidentally turned to gold!”

“That is a problem,” Killian quickly concedes.

She goes on.

“And you cannot follow me because you look like a...thief in the night.”

“A handsome one, at least,” he mutters.

“You look like you were sent to kill me, and as much as that would thrill Cassie, my parents will be _less_ pleased.” She stares at him directly. “For the love of the gods, stay here,” she insists.

He pulls her into him until they’re belly to belly, flush against each other, and her face flushes at his closeness, at the obvious intent in his movements as he threads their fingers together and brings them up to his lips, skimming a light kiss across her knuckles before dropping them back down to their sides.

“Will you come back?” he asks.

He doesn’t give her the chance to respond, leaning down to take her lips in a kiss that is all at once gentle and searing, right through her, not the quick pecks, not even the kiss that left her in his lap, dazed from the taste of his lips. This one is positively…

_Fantastical_.

And Emma near moans when he draws back, when he lets her settle back down on her heels from her tippy toes because she doesn’t want to…

She doesn’t want to go.

“I’ll be back,” she promises before she slips out of his embrace and runs.

(Not away from her problems, to be clear, but towards them.)

(Problem #2: Henry Swan, here she comes.)

 


End file.
